


periphrasis

by inkwelled



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mafia AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Seduction, Bottom Peter Quill, Crimes & Criminals, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Gun Violence, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Morning Sex, Murder, New York City, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Office Sex, Organized Crime, Parent-Child Relationship, Praise Kink, Private Investigators, Secret Marriage, Suit Kink, Top Gamora, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: pe·riph·ra·sis/ pəˈrifrəsis /noun(the) use of a longer phrasing in place of a possible shorter form of expression.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> not really satisfied with the way this first chapter turned out but whatever :/ this is the first of three chapters (the second being my favorite so far [not because of the copious amounts of office sex of course not]) and will update on tuesdays. 
> 
> chapters will be an estimated 5k each.
> 
> i'm gonna be honest here,, ,mantis' character doesn't feel exactly right but then again we've gotten so little of her in the movies that i decided to take creative liberties and play around with her characterization. her backstory and how she came to live with peter will be explored more as the story progresses, so stick around! see y'all next tuesday.
> 
> enjoy!

“’Mora?” he whispers, incredulous.

His head is spinning.

The woman at the desk looks up, and her painted mouth stretches into a smile. “Peter!” she says, coming around the corner with her arms outstretched.

She stops in front of him, gaze roaming over him. “You look good,” she observes, grasping his elbows, and with every word his head spins faster and faster. He can’t be here – this is a nightmare. Any second now he’ll wake up in his crappy apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, mattress with no frame, empty refrigerator.

“You–“ he chokes. “–you were _dead. Are dead.”_

Gamora’s face drops and on his arm her grip slackens. Peter eyes her, wary, pulling away. “I went to your funeral, I threw dirt on your coffin, _I mourned you!”_

She reaches for him, eyes shining in the low light. “Peter–“

“No!” He cries, taking another step back. His breath is coming fast now, the room spinning out of control. He’s shivering, sweating, shaky hands carding through his hair that feels like dust between his fingertips.

“I watched as they lowered you into the ground, I helped clean out your room, I arranged a wake for you at the school! I _mourned_ you and your sister, we all did! Everyone did! And you were here,” he gestures to the office, the two guards at the door that had escorted him here and breathed down his neck, “the entire time!”

Peter freezes, sucks in a breath, remembering. “Wait, your sister…?”

Gamora, back behind her desk, presses a button that makes a low buzz. “Come in,” she orders, crisp, and he blinks at the tone. He knows that tone, remembers their last argument the night before the car crash that fooled the school and him rocked their world.

A door to the side, blended into the wall opens and there’s Nebula, alive and well, and –

_“Mantis?!”_

Peter’s little sister smiles sheepishly. “Hey.”

His head spins faster. “ _This_ is where you were going on weekends?”

The woman shrugs. “I am sorry,” she says simply, and Peter follows her gaze downwards, “but in my defense, I had a good reason.”

Mantis’ hand in Nebula’s doesn’t surprise him as much as she was probably expecting. He just nods when Mantis blinks at him. “You’re not surprised.”

“Nah,” he shrugs, leaning back against Gamora’s desk, “I may not have been the brightest in school but I always saw your looks across the hallway to the Titan girls and since I had the biggest crush on Gamora, I knew you had your sights set on someone else.”

Nebula turns to Mantis; whose face is in flames. “Peter!” his half-sister squeaks. “You pinky-swore not to tell!”

He shrugs. “Judging by your hands, I’m pretty sure I didn’t give away anything everyone already knew, sis.”

Behind her desk, Gamora clears her throat. Her left hand is splayed against the desk and she bends at the waist, just far enough that her dark blue scarf hangs, loops swinging. “You two can go,” she nods, eyeing him for a moment before focusing back on the two women. She stands up, tugs her leather jacket back into place. “Peter and I…have a lot to talk about.”

Mantis sends him a sympathetic look as she leaves, and he narrows his eyes at Nebula, whose right hand is in the back pocket of his little sister’s jeans. Nebula throws him a smirk right before the heavy doors close with a _thud_ that rattles his bones and he breathes out shakily.

“Anything else?”

“Hm?” Gamora looks up, already sitting again.

Peter laughs breathlessly, falling into one of the high-backed leather armchairs positioned in front of her desk. He knows its only wood separating them, a few feet at most but he feels too close, too far away. “Is there anything else I should know? Now seems to be the time for revelations.”

Gamora’s hair is pulled back tight, falling down her back in loose curls that still shine brightly of magenta at the ends. Her scarf is dark blue, knitted-like, and her leather jacket has a high collar that accentuates the curve of her neck. He doesn’t focus on her tight black undershirt, the leather pants and the heeled boots that brought her a few inches closer to his height.

She’s always been shorter than him, even in high school. They had met on the first day of high school; two freshmen outcasts sitting under the bleachers during lunch. Peter remembers the black shirt she wore, how she picked at the sharp v that went _a little too low_ for fifteen-year old.

Peter had given up his leather jacket that day. His mother had given him that jacket before she died, apparently belonging to his father before _he too_ died, and Peter hadn’t thought twice before offering it to the quiet girl with the rings whose fingers never stopped pulling at the grass underneath her, her ponytail, the neckline.

Her quiet smile had blinded him.

Looking back, Peter pinpoints that exact moment as when he fell in love.

Now, here, sitting barely feet from a woman whose laugh once chased him only in dreams, who was his first (and last) kiss, who once pulled him into the women’s bathroom in passing to smear her lipstick on his collarbones, Peter can do nothing but blink. It’s been a decade since he’s seen her, and he drinks in every feature.

Time, it seems, has treated her well.

Her hair is longer than he’s ever seen it. Strong, capable hands reach down to roll open one of her desk drawers and her cheeks are clean from makeup. She looks healthy, whole, not lying six feet under somewhere in Missouri, decaying, fading away with time.

She looks nothing like the picture on his wall.

The whiskey bottle _clinks_ against the desk. Two tumblers follow it, and Gamora’s popping the cork. “Want some?”

He takes the offered glass. “Please.”

Silence rolls between them. He knocks it all back at once, desperate for answers he knows are logically _not_ in the bottom of the glass and Gamora sets her down after a small sip. She folds her arms, brings her chair forward. “What do you want to know.”

Peter blinks. He just about slams down his own glass but she doesn’t flinch. “Everything.”

The way Gamora nods is _too easy._

“Alright.”

She uncorks the whiskey bottle, amber liquid splashing against the bottom of her glass. She doesn’t bother closing it, rather leaning back with the tumbler clenched in her right first. “I didn’t want to lie,” she says, cutting through the silence, and he snorts.

The glare Gamora sends him is nothing short of what he remembers. “Thanos was convinced we had both gone soft and that further education wasn’t important for what he had…planned for us.”

Taking a long draw of alcohol, Gamora’s nails clink against the side rhythmically. Even though she’s known Peter has been close all this time, she hasn’t seen him in almost a decade and every time she blinks she expects him to disappear.

He’s still here, every time.

“So he staged the car accident. Everything – from the DNA to our outfits. He took us then, away from Missouri and the school and you–“ she almost chokes on the word _you, “_ –and brought us here.”

She motions around the room. It’s dark, dimly lit, every part the cliché mob boss office he had seen in movies and the tv shows only on at 3am.

“Where is he now,” he asks, leaning back, toying with the fraying edge of his jeans jacket, “your father, I mean?”

Gamora is silent.

“I know he wasn’t the best dude,” Peter goes on. “I remember how intimidating he was and how we always hung out at my house because of it. I would’ve thought he would have the big, dark office with the blood-money chairs.”

“We killed him.”

Peter blinks. “What?”

Gamora doesn’t look at him, boring a hole in the bottom of her glass. Her knuckles are white where she gripes the tumbler with her right hand as she takes a deep breath, knocks the rest of it back. “Nebula and I,” she specifies, “we killed him.”

His eyes widen. “You’re serious?”

She changes before his eyes. “Yes,” she snarls, slamming her tumbler back onto her desk, “yes, I am. He was an evil, evil man that abused both me and Nebula our entire lives and forced us to kill people for sport simply because he didn’t agree with them. Both of us have scars because he forced us to fight each other, swallow cocaine packets to smuggle them across the borders to his _associates.”_

Sitting back, she observes him. Peter is stunned to silence, mouth dry and he runs his tongue over his upper lip.

“So one night, Nebula came up with a plan to overthrow him,” she shrugs. “We knew we couldn’t just take his throne, we had to get rid of him for good. And I’m not guilty for what we did.”

He blinks. Gamora is now perched on the side of the desk, appraising him.

“He did this,” she says, tracing her finger along her cheekbone and he has to lean forward.

He gasps, hand coming up unconsciously to her thigh to get a closer look, push himself closer. In the low light he hadn’t even _seen_ the silver scars carved deep into her cheeks, forehead, around her eyes that stand stark against her dark skin.

“Oh _Gamora_ ,” he breathes, hand reaching up to cup her own hand against her cheek and she leans into the touch, closing her eyes and breathing raggedly. His other hand is still on her knee, leather cold against his fingertips and he brushes his thumb over the longest scar on her face.

“I’m glad you did.”

Her eyes fly open. They’re glazed with tears, the deep brown shining in the dim light of the office and he nods, choking back tears.

“If you ask me,” he breathes, leaning up, eyes searching, “he got what he deserved.”

Gamora’s hand comes up to his cheek. “Thank you.”

He’s so close, he can only hum. Her face is painted in slanted shadows, her lips cloaked behind the curtain of the spare lighting and he’s leaning in. Peter has dreamed of this moment for a decade; getting to see her again.

She’s different, blood under her fingernails and whiskey in her breath, but in all too many ways, she’s the same. It’s still _her_ smile, _her_ breathless laughter, _her_ lips against his.

And _oh_ , how he’s missed this.

On that day, on that rainy, dreary day when he stood in too-big shoes and too-tight shoulders, he had never thought he would get to do this again. Her funeral had been small, closed-coffin, and he remembers the coldness when he pressed his lips to the case.

But she’s here now, warm against his fingertips and she moans into his lips. His hand on her knee tightens and she’s carding her fingers through his hair, palm pressed to his shirt right over his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” she gasps into the air when they part, sucking in huge breaths, “I never stopped missing you.”

Their forehead are pressed together, breathing loud in their shared silence, and Peter notices he hadn’t remembered the bodyguards leaving. He’s too consumed by _her,_ wrapped up in the feeling of her alive within his grasp.

He’s determined not to let her go again.

“I was so lost,” he breathes into the inches between them. “You were gone and I was right there again, without my mother, and _oh god,_ Gamora, oh god.”

She pulls him against her until his cheek presses into her sternum.

Here, Peter can feel the warmth that radiates off her, even through the fabric of her shirt. Her heartbeat is steady against his ear and he closes his eyes, remembering all the times he laid his head in the same spot and fell asleep, her fingers in his hair, lips against his forehead.

It’s been a lifetime, and she’s changed.

He hasn’t.

Peter still craves her touch and it still tortures him. He’s tried every release, every relief, every physical thing that promised distraction; bottles and women and little white lines and smoke blown into evening air.

Gamora tastes like peppermint, clean, crisp. She is cold, sharp, alive and beating beneath and above him but at the same time so distant, far away. When he breathes in through his mouth, she smells like the city life, neon life, gunpowder and shoe shiner.

It’s so _her_ that his shaking fingers pull her in again.

She lets him.

Sliding from between his legs, perched on the corner of the desk to on top of his thighs, his arms coming to encircle her waist is the easiest thing she’s done in a while. Peter’s lips taste the way she remembers; spearmint gum and cigarette smoke, laughter and sadness.

Her hands are tangled in his curls, tips of her fingers scraping against his scalp. Peter moans into her mouth, shifting her until she’s closer and their chests press together and she can _feel_ the staccato drum of his heartbeat.

_Zehoberei._

Peter freezes against her.

She pulls back. “Peter?”

His eyes lift to meet hers. “O–oh my _God_ ,” he stutters, pushing back against her to drag his hands down his face.

The sudden change in mood makes her head spin. “Peter?” she cautiously intones, hands wrapping around his wrists to see his face. He lets her but keeps his eyes close, tilted back.

“I’m so _stupid,”_ he whispers and her brow furrows.

“Why?”

He looks up at her and it’s like he’s just remembering where he is. Gamora looks down at him, her knees still around his thighs, he still perched on the edge of the chair in front of her desk.

“Peter?”

_“You’re_ Zehoberei.”

Her blood freezes. “What?”

Peter groans. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before – you’re Zehoberei! God, I’m so stupid.” He knows he’s rambling but can’t stop. “It was your mother’s maiden name and I just – can’t believe it took me _making out with you_ to see it!”

She fits her hand under his chin, bringing it up until his eyes meet hers. “Tell me,” she says, quiet, firm, and he sighs heavily.

“I’m a PI for Quill Investigations, and I was hired to find evidence that Zehoberei – _you_ – had murdered a father of a family of five.”

Gamora freezes.

“What?” she whispers and Peter’s shoulders roll.

“Mantis and I – we run a Private Investigations company. I’ve been hunting you for _weeks.”_

There’s a ringing in her ears, she’s underwater. Faintly she registers reaching down to her boot as Peter raises his hands, mouthing _what’s wrong_ until there’s a flash and he freezes.

Gamora looks down.

Her hand is shaking, and beneath the blade pressed to the skin of his neck, Peter looks up at her. His eyes aren’t blown wide like hers, he’s not fearful. There’s no sweat rolling down his forehead, he doesn’t ask her what she’s doing or if she’s alright or begging for his life.

When he swallows his skin rolls against the blade, nicking it slightly. Gamora watches with rapt attention as a single drop of blood beads against the cut before rolling down his neck.

Before it can reach the soft blue collar of his shirt, she catches it on her finger.

“It’s alright,” Peter murmurs. Every word teases the blade against his exposed skin but he doesn’t wince at the feeling. “It’s alright, breathe ‘Mora. You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.”

She lowers her hand, listens to the blade as it clangs against the wood.

Peter’s palm cradles the back of her head, bringing it to rest on her shoulder and she lets him. He’s murmuring into her ear, reassuring sounds and she closes her eyes.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again,” he whispers, and she catches his lips.

This kiss is slow, sweet, comfort radiating from every corner of their mouths. It’s reminiscent of their time together during senior year where Gamora would climb the tree outside his window so they could kiss across the sash until his adoptive father would (almost always) catch them.

Yondu always let her come back.

Her boot catches the edge of the knife and she slides it away, under her desk. Peter’s hands are at her back and she scoots closer until their chests bump with every ragged breath.

She’s so completely lost, in him and the feeling of his fingertips on her spine.

“I love you.”

Gamora doesn’t realize what she’s said until it’s too late.

Underneath her, Peter stiffens.

Her mind is stuck, a broken record that skips _I love you I love you I love you_ over and over again.

“Peter–“

He pushes her back, gently. Everything is coming apart at the seams and she’s helpless to watch him lurch to his feet, unsteady. Her own legs feel inadequate and he flinches when she reaches for him, both to steady herself _and_ him.

She pulls back. “Peter?”

His gaze is everywhere but her. “You should have told me.”

The detachment in his voice makes her shiver and she wraps her arms around her body. She’s the highest power in one of the biggest crime syndicates on the planet, more knives hidden on her body than secrets, a body count higher than the scars on her back.

Yet she can’t breathe.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter’s facing away from her and she blinks. Every pause feels like an eternity.

“What?”

His hand on the handle of the door in which security waits on the other side of, his back bends beneath the weight of new-found information. She expects him to just leave, walk out of her life like she did his all those years ago and has come to terms with that.

It’s what she deserves.

Instead, he turns back around. “I loved you,” he says simply, knocking the breath from her lungs. Peter’s crying, tears slipping down his cheeks and he’s uncaring. “I would’ve understood, I would’ve _listened.”_

_Loved._

Past tense.

The door slams heavily behind him and she collapses against the edge of her desk. Right here is where she slammed her father’s head against the wood while Nebula slipped her dagger into his back, paralyzing him quietly so they could get the job done.

Underneath her fingertips, the wood chips.

_Thud thud thud._

Hope stirs in her stomach and she looks up in time to see Nebula slip through the door. Her mood plummets further and she grabs the whiskey bottle. “What,” she growls before taking a long drag.

Her sister watches from her place at the door. “Your boy toy just went stomping off with my girl,” she shrugs, and comes further into the room to collapse into the other chair before Gamora’s desk. “So I needed someone to annoy.”

“He’s not my boy toy. Get lost.”

Nebula snorts. “Could’ve fooled me,” she says. “Also, no.”

Silence falls between them,

She takes a longer swig to avoid her sister’s piercing eyes. Despite only having one – the other ripped out of her skull by their father when she was only eleven – Nebula’s gaze has always been disarming. She’s always been so damn observant, more than Gamora feels comfortable with sometimes.

Like right now.

The whiskey burns on the way down and she grimaces. “What do you want.”

Nebula leans back in her chair. “I said–“

Gamora snorts, resting her elbows on the desk. “I _heard_ what you said, but you’re a shit liar. What do you want.”

Her sister’s nails tap dully against the leather armrests. Nebula’s legs are crossed and her shoulders are relaxed, and in the back of her mind Gamora wonders where Mantis went.

Did Nebula already tell her?

_Your boy toy just went stomping off with my girl._

Oh.

“I’m sorry Peter nabbed your eye candy,” she drawls, propping her feet up on her desk. “But that’s not my problem. Aren’t you supposed to be readying the team for tonight?”

 

Nebula scowls, standing. “Meredith is _not_ eye candy. And if you had listened to Drax before you kicked him out to stick your tongue down Lover Boy’s throat, you would know we’re all ready,” she spits, “we’re just waiting for the word from our source and then I’ll be out of your hair for the night.”

Gamora massages her temples, head pounding. “Nebula–“

The door slams shut behind her sister and she lets her head fall back against the padded cushions of her seat. Thanos has taught them to fight, to survive, how to run a con in their sleep and load a gun while blindfolded in mere seconds.

Now, it seemed, it was up to them to learn how to be sisters.

 

 

 

Peter paces, running his hands through his hair and mumbling so lowly Mantis can’t figure out what he’s saying. They’re back at the office, curtains drawn and she’s sitting still, waiting for her older brother to calm down enough so she can talk.

Finally, _blissfully,_ he stops.

He sets his palms against his desk, a beat-up piece of junk he had gotten off the curb of some college apartment complex three days after graduation. There’s a gouge in the corner, the second drawer warps in the middle and the handle of the third drawer sticks.

But it’s his, so it stays.

Mantis sighs, crossing her legs and tapping her finger against the side of her slacks. _This is why I didn’t tell him,_ she thinks, frustrated, as Peter shakes his head before lifting it, falling into his chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Meredith?”

Her real name makes her sit up. Peter is a big fan of her stupid nickname he gave her when she was only a toddler, when she befriended a praying mantis and cried when she accidentally stepped on it later that day.

Him using her real name means business.

“I’m sorry,” she says first. “But I did it for this exact reason.” Mantis clears her throat, gesturing to his posture and he glares at her. “You wouldn’t know how to handle the fact your high school sweetheart who you thought was dead was running the largest crime syndicate in New York City, possibly on this side of the Atlantic.”

Peter sits back in his chair, exhaling. “When you did find out,” he whispers.

She swallows.

“Two years ago.”

The clear _betrayal_ in Peter’s eyes cuts her to the bone. She’s never lied to her big brother like this before, and she struggles to tamper down tears at how his eyes lose a little light with every word. Her shoulders hunch together and she retreats inside herself, guilty.

“I’m truly sorry, Pete,” she murmurs, looking down at her clasped hands.

Her older brother rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes until she’s sure he sees stars. “You know what position this puts me in, right?”

Mantis stays quiet and he groans. “I’m not mad,” he says, leaning forward to catch her eyes. “Just disappointed and – and _confused_. I have to make a decision now that you might hate me for.”

“But you already know that,” he amends, and she nods silently.

Peter’s exhale is long and cut off by a dark chuckle. “What a choice,” he says. “Either I lie to a family that hired me to find the truth or send the only person I’ve ever loved to jail because she did the right thing and killed the man that abused her and her sister their entire life.”

Mantis sets down two glasses, uncorking a bottle of vodka as he looks up. He hadn’t even seen her get up, and he smiles bitterly when she holds the one glass to him.

“To hard decisions,” she says, and their glasses clink merrily.

Peter throws it back and stares out the window. Evening is falling on New York City, and his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He pulls it out and stares down at a number he’s never had the courage to delete.

_Gamora._

Peter hits the power button and sets it, face-down, on the desk. Mantis’ eyes are sympathetic over the rim of her glass.

“You should pick up.”

Her older brother snorts, pushing back and pacing behind his desk. “Why should I? She lied to me for a decade about if she was _alive.”_

“Well so did I,” she says, straightening her shoulders and Peter sends her a weak glare.

She shrugs. “It’s true. You were willing to hear me out; you should give her the same opportunity. She – they both – have been through a lot and they never meant to hurt you – us.”

Peter sits back down heavily. “I know.”

Mantis nods. “I’ll leave you alone, then.”

He reaches for his phone and she turns, hand on the doorway. “Be careful, big brother.”

Peter looks up and she’s gone.

Silence falls in his office and he sighs, shoulders slumping. His phone is heavy and cold in his hand and the screen lights up when he touches it.

_Gamora (1) Missed Call_

 

 

“How’d he take it?”

Mantis sighs, rubbing her forehead, “Not very well.”

“That’s to be expected,” Nebula admits on the other end and through her phone, her voice is softer. “I’m sorry I asked you to keep this from him for so long.”

The young woman flops down onto her bed. “I understand why. Don’t apologize. It was the right choice.”

Nebula breathes out and there's a brief, jagged minute of static. "Still. He's your brother. We both know how much he cared for Gamora back in high school."

"Her death hit him hard," Mantis agrees. "But it wasn't just her."

"What?"

Peter's younger sister sighs again. "He cared about you too," she whispers, "and it was so hard to watch him fall apart without you two."

Her voice drops lower. "I missed you too."

There's silence on the other end, and Nebula's voice is unsteady. "I'm sorry."

"How's Gamora taking it?" Mantis says, and her girlfriend doesn't bring up the sudden subject change, something she's grateful for. Everyone is too on edge to let the quiet between them stretch for too long.

It's Nebula's turn to sigh.

"As expected. She's spent all day holed up in her office, yelling and I wouldn't be surprised if she crashed on her couch. Most likely, she won't be in tomorrow because she'll hit the gym, and I'll have to be the one to drag her out."

"What a mess," the younger Quill sibling laments, and Nebula hums in agreement on the other end of the line.

"Should I come over tonight? I heard it was supposed to rain."

"Yes," Nebula breathes, excitedly, although she'd deny it if Mantis brought it up. She doesn't. "Please."

Mantis giggles, spreading her palm on the light green comforter of her twin bed. Peter and her shared apartment is small, cramped, old paint peeling off the now-exposed brick, but she wouldn't trade it for the world.

Situated above the Quill Investigations office, it's quite convenient. Peter jokes commuting is hell, with the door that sticks and only opens if you kick the right spot while turning the knob, but Mantis knows he loves this place. She toes off her shoes, swinging her legs onto the bedspread and staring up at the woven lamp hung high above from the loft-like ceiling.

Outside, raindrops begin to dance along the windowsill.

Over the phone, Nebula's contented sigh is slightly muffled. Mantis imagines the lines on her face, the crease of her mouth that usually sits in a frown. The second Titan girl is significantly harder than her sister, more prone to fight now, ask questions later, but the softer side of her is something Mantis cherishes.

"I'll be there in five," Mantis says, already ruffling through her closet for Nebula's - self-proclaimed - favorite sweater.

The material is soft to the touch with woven strands of thick cashmere and in a muted oatmeal color that feels like heaven against her skin. She slips it over her head, pulls her hair away from her face and goes in hunt for her rain boots and keys.

"Stay on the line, if you can," Nebula groans and she can hear the slight creak of her mattress. "It's already starting."

Mantis slips her socked feet into the plain rainboots she must have kicked off by the sink, swipes her keys from the bowl. Juggling her phone in one hand and already packed bag in the other, she curses softly when her hip catches on the side table while running out the door.

Going to Nebula's, she sends to her brother and waves at him through the glass. Peter waves back, smiling, but the glazed look in his eyes and the half-empty bottle on the desk in front of him clues her into how out of it he is.

She pauses. "Change of plans, Lu."

Nebula coughs at the other end and Mantis imagines her grimacing with the sound. "Peter?"

"Yeah," she murmurs, slipping through the crack in the door. "Hold on."

Slipping her phone into the bag, Mantis reaches for the amber bottle. Peter, reflexes dulled with the alcohol, swipes for it but not before she's corking it, returning it to the drawer in her own desk.

"I knew that was a bad idea," she tuts, and Peter's returning smile is dopey. He hiccups before slumping back in his chair, gaze wandering back to the window.

"C'mon," she grunts, slinging her older brother's arm around her shoulder. "Let's get you somewhere you'll do less damage if you pass out."

"I won't!" he protests, words slurring together, but doesn't fight her when she lays him down on the couch in the corner. Almost immediately he sinks into the surface, eyes fluttering closed as the tension visibly fades from his shoulders. and she brushes a curl off his forehead.

"Rest," Mantis whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead before brushing away a few stray curls.

In sleep, Peter looks much more like his mother; yes his eyes crinkle as hers did in pictures she had seen, but the curve of his lips, the kindness in his hands, determination in his chin are accentuated when he's drifted off.

She tiptoes to the office door, wincing when it creaks. Oil hinges, she mentally reminds herself, almost tripping in her haste getting down the stairs.

It's only then she remembers Nebula is still on the phone.

"Shit," she whispers, fumbling for her phone. When she brings the device to her ear, she grimaces at the sound of Nebula coughing. It's a rough sound; a reminder of the damage done to her body by her long-deceased guardian.

Mantis will not call him her father.

"Hey," Nebula manages before breaking out into another coughing fit and Mantis clicks open her car, slides in. Outside the garage, the rain is now pouring and she pulls out quicker than recommended.

A car honks and she raises her hand as a universal 'sorry!' but hits the gas anyways. On the other end Nebula wheezes with the labored breathing of someone with COPD, brought on by breathing in gunpowder and chemicals for all her life.

There's a sticker on her car denouncing violence, but sometimes, not-so-secretly, Mantis wishes she could deck Thanos from beyond the grave.

She doesn't even have to enter the address on her phone. Knuckles white on their place clutched around the steering wheel, she runs through a yellow light, distracted by the coughing on the other end.

"Did you take your medicine?"

Nebula's voice is rough, cracked. "Yeah," she croaks and Mantis nods.

"I'll be there in five. Remember, liquids and laying on your back."

Her girlfriend chuckles. "Okay, Mom."

It coaxes a smile from her.

"Turning on the street now."

Five minutes later, hair hanging in strips around her face, she takes the stairs. "Hold on," Nebula had coughed weakly over the intercom, so she doesn't wait for the elevator that smells like cigarette smoke.

Her copy of the key to Nebula's apartment slides in with a sound that sounds like home.

Mantis steps inside drops her bag. The apartment is cold, dark, and she flips on lights as she goes. She pours water into a kettle to heat, slips down the hallway to find her girlfriend.

Nebula is curled up in bed, facing the wall. Her figure is concealed by a mound of blankets that shakes every few seconds with coughs that rattle her already-thin frame and Mantis' heart clenches.

"Hey," Nebula rasps and Mantis blinks.

"I wasn’t sure if you were awake."

Her girlfriend turns over, face illuminated dimly. "I buzzed you up three minutes ago."

Mantis sits down on the edge of the bed. "I know," she concedes, reaching out to feel the other woman's forehead and smiling sadly when she leans into the touch. "But it's happened before."

They both sit in silence for a few moments. Her hand is still on Nebula's forehead when she devolves into a coughing fit so bad it shakes the blankets from her shoulders, and Mantis pulls them back into place, despite how hot her skin is.

"I'm making tea," she says, hushed, and Nebula hums in acknowledgment.

Her eyes are closed and the scar that rips through her left eye shifts with every ragged breath. Rainy days like this are always bad for her lungs, and Mantis eyes the air cleaner in the corner of the room.

The tea kettle whistles. Every part of her body aches when she gets up and Nebula groans, reaching for her. "Stay," her girlfriend pleads hoarsely and she blinks away tears.

"I'll be right back," she whispers, "Promise."

Nebula’s hand falls from her wrist and walking away is the hardest thing Mantis has ever done.

When she returns, mug in hand, steam curling around her chin, Nebula is already asleep. She smiles, setting the tea on the nightstand before flipping off the light.

They’re in their own little world, here.

Mantis climbs carefully under the covers, sure not to wake her girlfriend. Nebula’s breaths are shallow and rattle deep in her chest and she pulls her closer until the older woman’s head is on her sternum.

She closes her eyes, starts to hum something she can’t quite place, and doesn’t notice herself drifting off.

In the bag dropped by the door, her phone vibrates.

Mantis doesn’t notice.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cut the crap. Why are you here, Gamora? First, you blow me off because I'm drunk, then show up minutes later? Answers. Now."
> 
> She doesn't even blink. In fact, the boss of the largest crime syndicate of New York City looks cool as a cucumber as she settles in. She adjusts her blazer in precise movements, clasps her hands over her knee. "I have a proposition I did not think to propose to you until after we hung up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to "is this really peter quill, or me just projecting _____ kink into my writing?" this week's episode; "body worship" and "suits"! enjoy, sinners, this is 6.5k of pure smut, broken up by the slightest bits of plot.
> 
> whoops.
> 
> p.s - [the suit gamora is wearing during the office scene](https://gotham-magazine.com/get/files/image/galleries/32873_slideshow_feature_zoe3.jpg?900x900)

_"ON THE FLOOR! THIS IS A ROBBERY!"_

_The lady behind the glass screams, cowering, and gunshots echo. He hits the floor, wallet still in hand, cursing the fact his gun is in his desk drawer and not on the holster attached to his belt._

_Of all the days to forget it._

_There's the sound of heels clicking before another gunshot and while there are screams, none are of pain. He risks looking up and to the side and on the closest clerical desk stands a man._

_In his_ _hand, there's a large gun. "Stay down and nobody gets hurt!" he yells. "We don't want any trouble."_

_His partner, however, seems a little more trigger-happy. There must be a third actually stealing money because the second only seems interested with prodding the backs of civilians with the barrel of his gun and snatching any wallets he sees out._

_Peter closes his eyes._

_Don't come this way._

_"Now who do we have here?"_

_He's always had shit luck._

_Peter Quill may not have been the top of his graduating class, but he's not an idiot. He's defenseless in a room with two guys with guns, and so far no one's been hurt._

_And one of those guns is at his head._

_"Hey, Drax, look at this doofus."_

_He holds his breath but rolls his eyes. Are they here for money or to make fun of a working-class citizen trying to survive in the Big Apple?_

_A boot kicks at his hand and he winces, letting his wallet go. Gloved fingers reach for it and whistle at the leather. "This is a nice wallet for someone whose leather jacket looks like it's seen better days. Think I might keep it."_

_Suddenly, both goons fall silent._

_"Rocket, that's-"_

_Peter furrows his eyebrows as the other goon is shushed. They're suddenly very quiet and the wallet is dropped back onto the floor, barely inches from his fingertips and he winces at the sound._

_Did they see his PI license?_

_He can barely hear them. Their voices sound like they're still standing directly above him and he strains to hear their whispers. What are they talking about?_

_"I didn't realize he was so close-"_

_"-she's going to kill us if she finds out."_

_"If."_

_"Rocket, we have to tell her."_

_The first goon - Rocket? - scoffs. "She doesn't have to know. After all, he doesn't know."_

_"He deserves to."_

_"Shut up - wait, there's Groot. Shit. We gotta go."_

_The footsteps retreat and there's yelling again followed by the sound of slamming doors. Peter is the first on his feet, making sure everyone is uninjured - even if they all are a little shaky._

_Behind the glass, the lady informs them they'll be closed the rest of the day to file a claim to the insurance company and_ he _groans. He's spilled coffee on himself twice, almost got run over at an intersection on his walk here, held at gunpoint for trying to withdraw cash, and now this?_

_Never buying a lottery ticket._

_Still, even a block later, after Mantis cried on the phone with him about how she's glad he's safe, his head spins. Who were those goons? Who was the_ she _they were whispering about - and why did_ he  _matter?_

_After reassuring Mantis he's okay, not a scratch on him, she's still suspicious. His little sister's eyes are determined as she wades through police reports, and soon he finds the goons from the bank and stops cold._

12 cases of bank robbery, always with multiple deaths, all in the same area. 

_Then why didn't they kill anyone at his bank?_

_Mantis sleeps curled up next to him that night. Peter's half sister's real name is Meredith - an almost cruel twist of fate. They share the same asshole father, but respective sweet mothers, both falling victim to Russel's good looks and charm._

 

 

_He's older by eight years. Peter remembers that afternoon, the sticky, humid summer air under the floppy strands against his neck, the man at the front door with the squirming bundle in his arms._

_Peter remembers the way his mother knelt down by him, a smile creeping across her face. "Pete," she had whispered, "meet your little sister."_

_The blanket had moved, cooed, and he remembers leaning closer. Between the soft folds he had seen her raven black curls first; followed by a little button nose scrunched up, tiny fists waving._

_He remembers the first cry his sister wailed, and how his heart had melted._

_In her sleep, Mantis' nose scrunches, just like it had on that first day when his mom made him sit on the couch before letting him hold her. He puts his arm around her shoulders, remembering the way his mom had showed him to hold her head so he wouldn't hurt her._

_"Hi," he had whispered and she had blinked up at him._

_His mother had smiled, putting her hand on his shoulder. "What's her name?" he had asked, and he remembers watching the expression that had flashed across her face, so fast he wasn't sure he saw it right._

_"Meredith."_

_Peter's face had lit up. "Like you!"_

_Meredith Quill chuckles, leaning her cheek against the sweaty curls of her son. "Yeah, baby. Like me."_

 

 

"Hey uh, M, it's me."

Peter groans, rolling his chair backward until he can rest his forehead on the lip of the desk. "I took your advice, and called her."

The silence over the voicemail echoes back at him.

"She said to come over tomorrow morning when I'm sober," he licks his lips, "and I guess I'm leaving this to say thank you for pushing me to do this. And - I'm guessing you're at Nebula's? Gamora said she hadn't heard from her sister all afternoon."

He gulps, shuts his eyes so tight until he sees stars. Head spinning and stuffed with cotton, everything is fuzzy.

Shouldn't have walked over here, he rations, and licks his lips.

"Anyways, I'm gonna go now and try to find water. It's been so long since I got tipsy I forgot how thirsty you get just talking."

Peter giggles. "Have fun with Nebula, bye!"

He sets the phone face down, lets out a long breath. Over the phone, he hadn't had much to work with deciphering out the tone of Gamora's voice. He'd like to think she was happy he called, but the way she had growled had made his knees weak.

Wincing, Peter sits back. Between his eyes throbs with the movement despite the low light and he rubs at them. Gamora had ended the call by yelling and his hands twist in his lap.

 

 

_"Fine!" she screams, and he's angry, too._

_"Fine!" he yells back. "Consider us done then!"_

_The words slip out quicker than he can catch him and he wishes he could take them back the instant after. On the other end, Gamora's breath hitches and the line goes silent._

_"Goodbye, Peter," she whispers, and the call drops._

_He throws his phone across the room. Peter presses his face into his pillow, ignores Yondu’s yell for him to come down for dinner. Mantis leaves a plate outside his door and when she knocks, he ignores her._

_At midnight, Peter's phone rings and everything falls apart._  

 

 

Now, he stands. A few steps from his desk, between his and Mantis' workspaces, is their board. It's covered in papers, pinned, grainy pictures, information written in bits of red marker.

He grabs his office chair, spins it around until he can straddle the back. Through the large plastic pane he can see the sun setting out the window and sighs. "Great," he mumbles, running through the evidence once more.

_There has to be something, right? Gamora wouldn't lie to him?_

Peter doesn't know anymore.

 _No,_ his chest rumbles, _she wouldn't,_ but his pounding headache reminds him of how he got here in the first place.

_Because she lied to him for a decade, faked her death, murdered her abusive father, and took over the largest crime syndicate in New York City with her assassin sister without blinking._

Oh, right.

"Figures," he sighs, standing to reach for the whiteboard marker, "That the first case where all the evidence checks out and the client might pay enough to pay off rent turns out to be connected to my fucking love life."

"Sounds like shit luck to me."

He whirls around, head spinning with the movement but unable to stop his jaw from dropping. In the doorway to his office stands Gamora, leaning so casually against the frame that he has to blink a few times to convince himself he's not dreaming.

_He has to be._

Because Gamora is dressed in a suit that's tailored so well it looks like a second skin. The black compliments her hair perfectly and his mouth goes dry at the deep v of the blazer that stands out in stark contrast to and boasts the rich sweep of her collarbones.

The chunky gold necklace glitters faintly in the dim light of his office as she steps further into the room, heels clicking tinnily on the hardwood. "I assume Mantis is with Nebula."

Peter clears his throat. "Y-yeah."

She cocks her head, inky hair falling over her shoulder. Her curls look messy, probably deliberately so and he doesn't miss the peek of lace beneath the blazer.

If possible, his mouth goes drier to the point of not being able to _swallow._

 _If she asked, I bet you still could,_ his brain whispers and he has to snap his gaze away. Gamora is standing not four feet from him and his jeans are too tight for him to be thinking what he's thinking right now.

He pushes his office chair back until he's behind the desk. _Cold shower,_ he thinks, forcing himself to look back at Gamora and not the flex of her thighs when she takes a step in the strappy heels tipped in gold.

Peter most definitely doesn't think of sticking his hand down those same pants that show off her muscles and seeing her only in the heels and nothing else.

Of course not. He's a professional.

As if she knows what he's thinking, Gamora smirks. There's a slight swing of her hips when she approaches and he drops his eyes to his desk, fists clenching by his sides before he rests them on the top. "I thought we were meeting tomorrow when I was, quote, 'sober enough to hold my fucking tongue.'"

Gamora chuckles, lowering herself into the chair in front of his desk and slouching [ just enough ] that her blazer's collar slips lower, _if even humanly possible._  "You seem alright right now."

Peter snorts. "I guess you startled me into sobriety," he says, feeling confident enough to lean back in his office chair.

Wrong move.

Across the desk, Gamora's eyes go dark. In the low light of the crappy office building he converted into his business, her pupils are blown wide with what he _hopes_ is arousal but can't quite confirm.

 _God, I hope so,_ he thinks as she licks her lips and leans back in her own seat. The brown, worn leather of the armchair welcomes the curve of her back and he bites back a moan when she crosses her legs.

He should _not_ think about what he's thinking about right now.

"Not even I am that lucky," she says, surveying the room and when her gaze lingers on the board, he growls.

"Cut the crap. Why are you here, Gamora? First, you blow me off because I'm drunk, then show up minutes later? Answers. Now."

She doesn't even blink. In fact, the boss of the largest crime syndicate of New York City looks cool as a cucumber as she settles in. She adjusts her blazer in precise movements, clasps her hands over her knee. "I have a proposition I did not think to propose to you until after we hung up."

Peter laughs bitterly. "You mean when _you_ hung up on _me?"_

She nods. "Unless you received another phone call after ours ended and before I got here that got muddled in your post-hangover brain, yes. That one."

"My brain is still in hangover mode," he says, "so a reminder that whatever this proposition, please make it snappy. I can hear my bed calling my name and these lights are making my head throb."

She leans forward. "Should we take this," she leans farther forward, lips puckering with the words, "somewhere else then?"

Peter's brain shorts out. Somewhere between her fluttering her eyelashes and the curve of her collarbones, he had lost whatever - admittedly small - part of his brain that whispered _this might not be the best idea._

"W-we can go up to the apartment," he says, shakily getting to his feet and she follows.

Gamora all but purrs when she stands, knowing very well the view he has down her blazer. _She really isn't wearing a bra._

"Maybe you _should_ go to bed," she breathes and he stops inches from her. Lips barely inches apart, there's a bolt of temptation before he swallows, taking a step back.

"Why are you really here?"

Gamora steps into the space he once was and he finds himself retreating. Something in his chest screams with every step back and a smirk falls into place on her face, red-painted lips curling upwards.

"How about I show you," she whispers and his back hits the wall.

She leans in, eyes flashing.

Even the kiss is insistent. Peter's eyes flutter close almost instantly and he doesn't try to keep the moan that builds in his throat from slipping out. The noise spills from his tongue and Gamora presses closer, her own tongue running over the seam of his mouth.

He lets her in.

Gamora's mouth is warm, wet, and her body is firm. Every part of their body is pressed together and he can hear the fabric of her suit sliding against his cotton shirt. Her hands are everywhere, in his hair and on his chest and slipping up to run fingers over the curvature of his abs.

"Go it," he gasps into her mouth and she pulls back far enough to latch her lips onto his neck. Peter's eyes pop open when her hands, running down his arms, suddenly push them up and over his head.

She's pinned him against the wall of his office. The bookshelves pressed into his back are uncomfortable but he can't move, and he finds even if he _could_ , he wouldn't want to.

"Good boy."

Peter moans, tipping his head back against the wall. A single hand has his wrists clasped above him, and Gamora's breath is hot against his sensitive skin. Her other hand has slipped up his shirt, splayed against his ribs and he gasps for breath.

It's too much and not enough.

Gamora bites down and he can _feel_ her smirk.

"You know what to do."

Peter blinks, but doesn't say word. Almost automatically he reaches for the hem of his shirt and she backs up enough to let him. His eyes never leave hers, though, and when she bites her lip he can feel himself hardening.

Gamora sees it too.

He barely gets the shirt over his head when she's pressing close again. This time, her hand ghosts over the bulge in his jeans and rubs. Peter knows he's moaning and bucking into her, probably more turned on than he should, but Gamora's body holds him in place.

"You remember," she pants against his neck, before biting down and his gasp echoes around the small room no longer lit by the sunset, "good boy."

Her thigh creeps between his knees. Gamora's hands are in his hair, mussing the curls he had so meticulously gelled this morning, and he finds he doesn't care. There's a fire beneath his skin, sparking with every pass of her fingertips and he moves into each touch.

"Please," he groans, breathless and there's just enough light in the room for Gamora's smile to glint. She moves her upper body away until the only friction is her feather-light touches against the front of his jeans and he whines.

"Use your words, Peter."

He tilts his head back, a frustrated groan escaping his kiss-swollen lips. The fabric of her suit no longer pressed into his chest, she lets her fingertips trail over his chest and he keens when she pinches his right nipple for a moment.

"Words, or I leave."

"P-please," he gasps into the air, panting, high on the smell of her sweat and perfume, "touch me."

"Do you deserve it?"

Gamora's smirk is visible in the dark room and he can [ see ] the way her pupils darken with arousal. He wants to touch her, run his hands up and down her thighs and reassure himself she won't leave again but he can barely [ think. ]

Her kneecap presses into the bulge in his jeans and he wails her name. The back of his head smacks the wood of the shelves behind him and this time, he groans for a different reason.

Gamora's hand creeps to cradle the back of his head, palm sliding over the spot that now throbs. She's leaning back in until her lips are inches from his and he can see every inch of her skin.

Peter swallows. "Y-yes. I deserve it."

Her eyes dance. "Yes?"

His throat drops into his stomach. They had only explored this once, but the expectant look in her eyes doesn't lie.

He can feel himself growing harder beneath her knee and doesn't even _try_ to bite off the moan that slips through his lips. "Yes, _mommy_."

"That's all you had to say," she says, smiles like it's the easiest thing in the world and she didn't just reduce his world to the smell of her sweat. Peter's brain is shorting out with every moment and she steps away.

He can barely keep himself upright.

Keeping his eyes open is a battle he's determined to win. Without the press of her body, he feels cold suddenly but the feeling fleets with the sight of Gamora sliding onto his desk.

She curls a single finger at him and he almost trips in his haste to get to her.

Her palm on his chest stops him. In the low light coming from the street lamps outside, Gamora's figure is outlined in a halo. Peter can't see her face when her hand slips to his shoulder and the slightest pressure has him on his knees.

Literally.

The wood makes his knees throb but the fact he's level with her thighs makes him shiver. Above him, Gamora is the epitome of calm and she leans back into the light on top of his desk. "Show mommy how you've been good."

Peter shivers, reaching for her foot. She had folded her legs but now she slowly unfolds them and his fingers shake against her ankle when he scoots close.

Above him, Gamora sighs. He presses soft, open-mouth kisses to the skin around the strap of her heel and his fingertips against the bottom of her foot make her squirm.

"Focus."

Peter straightens.

His fingers wrap around her ankle to unbuckle the shoe but she shakes her head. "Leave them on."

Swallowing dryly, he continues on. Every movement of his fingers reveals smooth, dark skin he can't help but press kisses to.

Gamora's smile is barely visible in the low light but he can hear it when she breathes out, almost panting, when his fingers dance behind her knee.

His returning smile is reverant and she bends down as he leans up.

They meet in the middle.

Although his arms stay by his side, Gamora's hands trace his cheeks. While their kiss against the wall was hard, passionate, this is soft. There's still that fire beneath his skin, sparks flying wherever her fingers touch, but it's dimmed so he can taste beyond her lips.

Gamora smells sweet and bitter at the same time. Her mouth tastes faintly of grapefruit, something he can barely recognize as wine, and the combination sweeps his tongue.

When she pulls back, Peter's eyelids flutter open and she's smiling. They both stay like that; Gamora's pants pushed to her thighs and his knees cramping on the hardwood floor but her thumb swipes over his cheekbone and he stares back.

"Beautiful," she whispers and he closes his eyes to the praise.

Peter pushes into her touch and she obliges, pulling him back in. The position is awkward and messy; he knows his thighs will burn in the morning but right now, it's perfect.

"Take my pants off," Gamora breathes into his mouth, "and I'll make my proposition."

Peter smiles into her lips. "Yes ma'am."

She leans back, hands planted firmly behind her on the desk. For a moment he doesn't move, hands right above her knees, fingertips lightly applying pressure to the bottom of her thighs, and just admires her.

Gamora smiles. "What?"

Something in his heart twinges. _Please, don't let her leave again._

"Nothing."

Her breathing hitches visibly when his palms slide upward. The crinkle of fabric, obviously nicer than anything he's ever worn, is a new sensation he hopes to savor later.

For now, though, his fingertips creep upwards until his hand rests in the dip of where her thighs meet. Gamora's breathing more heavily now but she still manages to look put together.

She threads one hand through his hair and Peter rumbles contently at the movement. Nimble fingers pop the button at the top of her pants and he takes his time drawing his hands back down her legs, taking the cloth with it.

Gamora lifts her ass to make the removal smoother, but other than that she doesn't help. He can't bear to look at her until the slacks are pooling around her ankles and he carefully sets the bottoms aside, folding them neatly.

She tucks her palm under his chin, forcing him to look up at her. "Good boy," she rumbles, and Peter moans, eyes fluttering close at the praise. "Now, your reward."

Peter takes his time.

She releases his chin and leans back, eager to take in the show. Peter had always been quiet in his affections in bed, taking his time whenever she gave him a chance too.

Tonight is no different.

He starts at her feet. From the waist down she's completely bare - not that Peter knows, not yet - the only article her shoes. Peter's hand cups the front, bringing it to his lips and pressing open-mouthed kisses to her toes.

Gamora breathes out.

He doesn't look at her. All his attention is solely devoted on worshipping her skin in a way she's never had a lover do in over a decade and she's intent on focusing on this moment alone.

Then his fingers press into her ankles and calves, and he lathes his way upwards. The room is filled with the sounds of her moaning as he works his way up her legs, kissing every inch of skin he can reach without seeing.

The low light from the hallway grants her enough to see the way Peter's lips move against her skin. She tilts her head back, breathing out, and forces her hips to stay on the desk, hands planted firmly behind her.

All she wants is to force him up, where she can [ feel ] herself dripping. She had stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes, uncharacteristically nervous, before deciding on what to wear underneath the suit.

Peter's fingers are warm against her thighs and she parts them with a sigh. He still hasn't looked up at her, eyes still closed as he inches closer and closer to the crux of her legs with his lips.

Her heart jumps at the thought.

She cards her fingers through his hair, applying the lightest of pressures. Peter groans and she drapes right leg over his shoulder, opening her to the slightly cold air of the room that makes her breathe in sharply.

Gamora props her heel on Peter's shoulder and looks down. He's halfway up her thigh, eyes still shut as he nips and kisses at the inner skin of her thigh and she's on the edge of grabbing him.

He switches to the other side.

Cold air hits the skin damp with his breath and salvia and she moans at the loss of warmth. Every hair feels like it's standing on edge and he starts back up again at her left knee, tongue darting out to lick around her kneecap.

Her next words are cut off by a moan.

Peter, it seems, has reached his limit.

His arms come around to her ass, pulling her more towards the edge of the desk and Gamora finds herself torn between leaning back or watching the show that's to come. The journey up her thigh is quicker this time and she can't control the jerk of her hips towards his face.

Peter buries his face barely _inches_ from where she's literally dripping onto his desk and bites at the sensitive skin there. Gamora pants into the air, no longer trying to be quiet and she grabs at his hair unapologetically.

He moans as she pulls him up and away. Gamora knows her chest is heaving beneath her blazer, and every pass of fabric when she shifts against her nipples makes her break into goosebumps.

She tuts. "No more games. Do you want your reward or not?"

In the low light, Peter gulps before nodding.

"Good," she smiles, "will you behave?"

His returning nod is eager.

"Words."

"Yes, mistress."

Gamora leans back, sweeping the papers off before planting a hand on the wooden surface. "Good boy. Take your reward."

Her hand is still entangled in his hair but he doesn't seem to mind. Peter's hand on the skin of her knee, he pushes them apart until she's barred in front of him.

If possible, he hardens in his jeans further. The lack of friction underneath the rough fabric makes his head spin and he blinks when he finally levels his gaze with the small patch of black curls between her legs.

Peter's face is amazed and she smiles. "I figured we wouldn't need these," she smirks as she pulls a strip of black lace from her blazer pocket.

His eyes go wide. In Gamora's hand, dangling from her fingertips, is the tiniest thong he's ever seen.

The lace is see-through, and he imagines hooking his forefinger around the edges, dragging them down the long expanse of her creamy legs. In the back of his mind, he imagines the contrast of the dark fabric against her skin and swallows dryly.

Gamora's smirks drops the second his lips wrap around her clit.

She throws her head back, moaning. In his hair, Gamora's fingers tighten, yanking at the roots and he groans against her, which makes her hips jump.

Peter splays his hands on either side of her hips, forcing them to stay down. His right hand creeps upward to undo the single button of her blazer and it falls open easily.

Her nipples harden against the cold air. In the low light, Gamora watches as he reaches up to squeeze one breast and she breathes out harshly.

Peter looks up at her from between her legs and she moans, egging him on. Her own hand comes up to envelop his and she pushes his palm closer, craving friction.

Shaking with the effort to keep herself upright, Gamora allows herself to fall back on her elbows. Inbetween her legs, Peter moans while licking broad strokes alternating with teasing, small circles across her lips and she's quivering.

The vibrations from his mouth make her squirm.

She's teetering on the edge of something more, something she hasn't experienced in a long, [ long ] time, and that scares her.

But not as much as it excites her.

Her back bows against the desk. She's fully down now, hips jerking in time to the strokes of Peter's tongue against the bundle of nerves between her legs that sends her spiraling.

She pants, legs tightening around his face. Gamora can _feel_ herself dripping down Peter's chin and she keens when he latches onto her clit, creating a seal.

When he sucks it into his mouth, she comes with a scream.

Gamora claws at the desk, hips jerking as her mouth carves out an 'o'. Every nerve is sparking, on fire, burning through every sane thought she's ever had.

All she can think is _Peter_.

She slumps back against the desk, spent. Even her legs feel too heavy to move so she lays limp when Peter kisses his way between her breasts to her mouth.

He smiles into her mouth and she curls her fingers in his curls. "Good boy," she pants, and Peter preens visibly.

They fall silent, her legs falling over the side of the desk and lips clenching every few breaths.

"What made you change your mind?"

Peter sighs, dropping his head into her shoulder. "I was never able to say no to you. I guess nothing's changed."

She holds him closer. "I'm so sorry, for everything. I regretted every single day not telling you what was going on. I was so wrong for leaving, for letting Thanos win."

He's quiet against her collarbone and she sighs, chest heaving with the effort. In the darkness, they're pressed close and Peter doesn't say a thing about the bulge pressed against her hip.

Gamora doesn't either.

"Can you forgive me for all I've done?"

Peter's fingers run through the sweaty tangles in her hair. "I think one day," he whispers, "but right now, I can't."

She'll take it. For now, it's enough.

"Let's take this upstairs," Gamora says, and she presses him into the wall in the corridor outside his office leading to the apartment upstairs. Peter kisses back with the same fire, and she sinks to her knees.

Gamora cuts off his protests with a hand on his thigh. "Please," she whispers, and for the first time in her life, surrenders.

 

  
Mantis sighs, dropping her head onto Nebula's shoulder. It's early morning right now, the sun barely starting to peek through the curtains of her girlfriend's room, and Peter is already awake.

_Meet me at the office at seven. We have a lead._

Under her, Nebula shifts. "Hey," she croaks and Mantis lifts her head to smile.

"Hey yourself."

Nebula turns to wrap her arms around the younger woman. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go," she says mournfully. "Apparently Peter has a lead."

Her girlfriend snorts. "He has a lead because Gamora went to see him last night."

Mantis blinks.

"I thought he was mad at her? Why would he let her in?"

Nebula smirks. "Apparently, she wasn't wearing a bra and Peter was never able to say no to her. She probably played that to her advantage."

The younger Quill sibling tries to bite back a smile but finds she can't. "I want to be mad but that's admirable."

There's silence for a second.

"How are you?"

Nebula chuckles hollowly. "Just peachy."

She winches when Mantis pins her with a glare. "Honestly, I've been better. But thank you for staying."

Mantis wraps her arms around Nebula's waist, pulling her close as she can without making her girlfriend uncomfortable. "I'm always happy to stay, if you need it."

Nebula turns in her embrace. "Then stay."

Before Mantis can respond, Nebula has pulled her in. Cold, chapped lips that taste like the tea she left on the nightstand press into hers and Mantis lets her embrace tighten.

"Okay," she whispers into Nebula's skin. "I'll stay."

The kisses are slow, languid, broke up by harsh coughing. Mantis splays a hand over Nebula's chest as she coughs, body-wracking heaving that follows. "I got you."

"I know you do."

The next press of their lips is softer, if possible. Something in Mantis' stomach stirs when Nebula moans, pulling her over on top of her until their noses touch.

Nebula turns her head, deepening the kiss in a way that's both sweet and arousing. Her hands are in Mantis' hair and her short black hair falls in both their eyes.

She breaks out into giggles when her girlfriend's kisses travel down her neck. Light nips against the pale expanse of her skin have her breath coming out in short, stunted breaths and she cradles Nebula's head against the covers.

They're half laying on top of each other at this point; Mantis lets the hand not under Nebula's head wander down to her waist, fingers digging into the skin.

Fingertips trace circles into the exposed hip from the hem of her sleep shirt and Nebula groans softly into her mouth. "Let me take care of you," Mantis whispers into the inches between their lips and Nebula looks up at her with hopeful eyes.

Mantis cups her cheek, smoothing her thumb over the jagged scar that rips through her right eye. Nebula leans into the touch and she leans down to sweep her into another kiss.

Tongue swiping across Nebula's lips, Mantis smiles before licking into her mouth. Not only does she taste like tea, but the slightly bitter remnants when pills sit in your mouth too long before you swallow them.

She doesn't think about the fact that one day, the woman beneath her will be too sick to kiss. That her lungs will start to close up in a way no one can seem stop - no matter how much money she has.

Mantis presses closer, intent on kissing her [ now, ] when Nebula is healthy enough to kiss back with the same passion and can gasp when she slips her hand into her sleep shorts.

"Shhh," she sighs into Nebula's ear before nipping at the sensitive skin there. Nebula's hips jump against the sheets as she slips a finger between her lips, thumb working in small circles against her clit.

Nebula's breath hitches and she pants into the side of Mantis' shoulder. They're stretched out now, Mantis laying on her side while her girlfriend spreads her legs and arches her back.

Quivering, it doesn't take long for Nebula to peak. She's shaking with the effort of remembering to breathe and just as she crests, Nebula drags Mantis into a bruising kiss.

Mantis crooks her fingers inside of Nebula and she comes with a shout.

When she can finally see straight, Nebula growls and tackles her girlfriend back into the blankets. She moves down Mantis' body quickly, hand slipping up her shirt to unclasp her bra and fingers creeping to unbutton her jeans.

Nebula tugs them far enough down her thighs to press two fingers to the mound of black curls and Mantis sighs, relaxing against the sheets. Soon, Nebula's tongue replaces her fingers and she keens, throwing her head back as Nebula lathes over her bundle of nerves.

They lay there after, and Mantis thinks she can taste herself on Nebula's lips. On the nightstand, her phone vibrates repeatedly before falling silent and Nebula runs her fingers through Mantis' hair.

"You should answer that."

Mantis smiles, hand draped over Nebula's waist pulling her closer. "I'm sure he'll be fine for twenty more minutes."

Nebula raises her eyebrows, smirking, laying her own hand over top. "Aren't you only five minutes away?"

She kisses her, waiting until Nebula's eyes flutter close to flip them so she straddles her hips. They're both naked, Nebula's pajamas and her outfit somewhere between the blankets and carpet below and she leans down to brush her lips across Nebula's.

"Peter doesn't know that."

Nebula's laugh turns into a long, low moan when Mantis lowers her head to kiss one of her nipples. Under the attention, it purts up and Mantis laughs softly, the vibrations sending shockwaves through Nebula's system.

"Noted," Nebula says, and tilts her head back in invitation.

Mantis leaves an hour later, hair rumpled and smelling like Nebula's shampoo. They kiss in the doorway and Mantis waggles her fingers before taking the stairs two at a time.

"Call me!" Nebula calls and she smiles over her shoulder.

Peter isn't happy when she hits his contact. His voice sounds rough, like he spent the night coughing and she brushes off the thought. He _is_ coming off a hangover.

Mantis lays a hand on her steering wheel. "How was the meeting with Gamora?"

Her brother laughs. "Nebula tell you that?"

She smirks, starting up the car and pulling away from the curb. "Maybe."

"You there? I assumed you were."

Mantis giggles, turning the corner. "You thought right. I'm on my way now."

There's the sound of rustling papers and a sharp intake of breath. Her eyebrows furrow. "Peter?"

He clears his throat. "Ye - yeah M, I'm fine. Just a little hungover and the lack of coffee isn't helping. I don't know how you do it," Peter says, and she hears the grinder start in the background. "but whatever you do to it always makes it taste better so [ please ], get here as quick as you can."

"I'm right around the corner."

Peter lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank [ God ], I have no clue how to do this beyond grinding the beans into powder."

Mantis laughs, pulling up to the curb, turning off the engine. "You're such a disaster straight."

Her brother snorts. "Get up here, you chaotic lesbian, and help your favorite brother drug himself up on caffeine so he can think straight."

"You're my _only_ brother! And you're already straight."

She slides her key into the lock and on the other end, Peter whines playfully. "You beat me to the straight joke!"

Laughing, Mantis hoists her bag further onto her shoulder and climbs the stairs. "Call it payback for sixth grade, big bro."

"That was an _accident!_ I said sorry! How was I supposed to know Bereet didn't know about your crush on her?"

She shoulders the door open and barks outright at the sight in front of her. Peter is obviously hungover, clad only in crooked pajama pants, staring down at the coffee filter in his hand.

What makes her smile fade into a smirk, though, is the clear hickies that make a clear path down his bare chest and disappear under the hem of his pants. "Have fun last night?"

Peter jumps, dropping the phone before wincing and reaching for his head. "Jesus, Mantis! You gave me a heart attack!"

Mantis chuckles, setting her bag on the counter. "You didn't answer my question."

"I could ask you the same thing," Peter says and her hand comes up to cover the only hickey she hadn't been able to cover with her hair or collar of her sweater.

"Touche."

"So what was the lead?"

Peter sets down a thick folder bursting with papers. "This. The case just got more complicated."

She reaches for the folder and flips through it.

Mantis' eyes go wide. "Is this-?"

He nods, leaning against the counter and she sucks in a breath. _"Oh."_

"Let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm, what could the lead be? 
> 
> fun fact: this was actually 7.3k and included a scene i've been talking about since the beginning. you guessed it - the office sex in gamora's office this time! i found the timing wasn't exactly right so i moved it to the next chapter, which will be a six-month jump.
> 
> another note; this is four chapters now! shoutout to char for that <3
> 
> don't forget to leave kudos and comments, they give this broke, depressed, bi high schooler motivation. see y'all next tuesday! i can't wait to see your reactions :^)


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Same up here, from what I can tell. Proxima seems glued to her date."
> 
> Peter lets his eyes wander the crowd, just as the band strikes up the first song. "Maybe I can-"
> 
> Whatever he's going to say is lost in that moment because descending the stairs, arm looped around her sister's, is Gamora.
> 
> Peter's mouth goes dry. 
> 
> _What is she doing here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i write this chapter purely to write all my faves in various scandalous situations due to the slits in their outfits and to further expose my (probable) suit kink, especially when it comes to zoe saldana? you betcha. did i write this chapter knowing everyone would hate me by the end, because i'm heartless and can only write angst/smut? hell yeah.
> 
> dresses; [gamora's](http://loveandpr.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Porter-April-6th-2018-01.jpg), [mantis'](https://i.redd.it/4oyy6ciibkk01.jpg), [nebula's](https://www.yournextshoes.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/karen-gillan-spiderman-homecoming-premiere.jpg), [proxima's](http://www.tesbuydress.com/Public/Uploads/Products/20140529/Spaghetti%20Taffeta%20Dakota%20Johnson%20Sequin%20Dress%202014%20Met%20Gala%20Navy%20Dress.jpg)  
> suits; [peter's](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/y5vwrSTJ06qDaeJsKro9622C7cQ/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2015/05/27/760/n/1922398/9d25d7a633b4ac6a_464185888/i/17-Chris-Pratt-Pictures-ll-Make-You-Weak-Knees.jpg), [corvus'](http://www4.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Michael+James+Shaw+Mercedes+Benz+USA+Official+nrLiDdXpxrYl.jpg)

The gala hasn't even officially begun yet but it's already bursting at the seams.

Peter sighs, readjusting his tie before it can cut into his neck. Beside him, on his arm, Mantis tuts and reaches for his hand. "Calm down," she whispers as they descend into the party, "you're acting like a man looking for someone and that's dangerous here."

"I know," he gulps, sending her a nervous smile that falls quickly. "You're better at these than me."

At the bottom of the stairs, Mantis stops, nimble fingers straightening his collar and brushing invisible lint off his jacket. "Smile," she says, plastering a smile that almost looks real onto her rosy lips.

While he blends in wearing a simple black and white tuxedo, complete with a black bowtie that seems out to get his jugular, his sister struts forward in a bright red, silk dress.

She had refused to show him the garment until she walked out of her room and sent him a lopsided grin. "How do you like it?"

Peter had smiled, kissing her hand before looping her arm in his. "Ravishing. Whoever you go after tonight is definitely a goner."

While one side hangs off her shoulder, the other side extends into a billowing sleeve that slims at the wrist. Bunched at the waist in a tiny knot, the rest falls to the floor, only prevented from dragging by her heels.

The showstopper, however, is the slit up the left leg.

Peter wouldn't call his sister provocative, but this dress screams it. The slit starts at the waist and every step teases the skin of her upper thigh in a way he's never seen his little sister do before.

They've both seduced targets before, of both genders, but there's something about this dress that throws him off. Mantis' hair is pulled back slickly, makeup minimal, the usual.

But there's something else going on here.

Peter eyes his sister as she smiles at the waiter and he _melts_. He chuckles, his own haze sweeping the floor, remembering hos disarming her puppy dog eyes can be.

Mantis reappears at his side, holding two champagne flutes.

"Drink," she whispers, and their glasses clink quietly in the organized chaos around them.

Eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass, Peter watches as Mantis surveys the room. "Eight o'clock," she murmurs before pretending to luck a loose hair back behind her ear. "Blue dress. On the arm of the blue suit. Pretend I'm funny if you can't find an excuse to look."

Peter laughs, setting a hand on her shoulder and turning his gaze fast enough to find the couple. His gaze flits back to Mantis and he smiles, genuinely this time.

"Bingo."

Nodding, his little sister sets her empty champagne glass on a passing tray. "Be right back. I'll scout out what we have to work with."

"I'll stay here and do groundwork."

Mantis smirks. "Try not to have a repeat of last time."

Peter gasps, bringing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "How dare you! My acting was _fantastic_ last time."

She quirks an eyebrow and he deflates. "At least I thought so."

Mantis doesn't have to stand on her tiptoes to reach his ear. His little sister smirks, kissing his cheek. "You thought wrong," she whispers, smug, and disappears before he can retaliate.

Peter sips his champagne with a frown that falls quickly. As inconspicuously as possible he starts making a lap along the wall, pretending to admire the paintings and architecture of the large room in the museum the event is held in.

"I count ten cameras," he murmurs into his next sip and in his ear, Mantis sighs.

"Same up here, from what I can tell. Proxima seems glued to her date."

Peter lets his eyes wander the crowd, just as the band strikes up the first song. "Maybe I can-"

Whatever he's going to say is lost in that moment because descending the stairs, arm looped around her sister's, is Gamora.

Peter's mouth goes dry.

What is she doing here?

Every step against the marble stairs seems to echo in his bones, matching the wild drum of his chest. Peter's gaze wanders up her legs and his face grows warm when the slit in her dress falls open with every footfall.

Gamora's dress is the darkest shade of black he's ever seen, and he wonders if this is what heaven looks like. In the lighting, she looks like a goddess, descending the stairs like something straight out of his dreams.

The neckline swoops in what he can only describe as a teardrop.

While the collar is high, curving against her neck, the cutout that dips low enough to show the swell of one breast makes his mouth go dry. Every movement teases the paler skin that rims her nipple that he knows - quite - well.

The shoulder pads, on anyone else, would look tacky. But Gamora wears them with dignity and the longer sleeves, he knows, hides the scars. The rest of the dress is fairly simple; there's a cutout in the waist, but nothing out of the blue until the skirt.

The slit that goes splits right up the middle of the bottom half of her dress teases her long legs that he knows she likes to show off. He follows the hem of the slit until where it stops, teasingly close to showing more and not enough.

Peter gulps down his champagne as Gamora reaches the bottom of the staircase.

Her eyes meet his across the ballroom and she _smirks_.

_She knew he would be here tonight._

He imagines pulling her into a side hallway, running his hands up her thighs until they slip beneath the inky fabric, peppering bits down the exposed skin barred by her dress -

"Focus!" Mantis trills in his ear and he frowns.

"You knew," he points out, not even asking and she laughs.

"Yeah, Nebula asked for help shopping. She's not much of a dress person."

Peter chuckles. "I can imagine. Did she pick that one or did you?"

In the earpiece, Mantis makes a thoughtful sound. "We narrowed it down to two in the dressing room and she said she wanted it to be a surprise. I guess she chose my favorite."

"You two are cute to the point of sickening," he says, holding back an adoring _awww_. From the balcony, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mantis sticking out her tongue at him.

"What's so funny?"

Peter's laugh cuts off quickly as he spins, champagne glass forgotten in his hand. "Gamora."

The woman in question cocks her hip, her own flute dangling between her fingers. Gamora's dark hair is pulled back into a low bun, and her gold earrings sparkle in the lighting.

"Hi Peter," she smiles, and her eyes sparkle over the glass' rim.

"You," he swallows dryly, "you look amazing."

She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, this old thing? It's been in the back of my closet for forever."

Peter blinks before smirking. "Now why do I have a hard time believing that?"

Gamora shrugs, leaning against the wall and letting her gaze roam the room. "I don't know, why do you?"

He steps closer and she looks up at him. They're partially hidden by the shadows in the corner by the staircase and his height conceals her figure.

Peter sets his hands on her hips. "Maybe because you knew I would be here," he leans close enough to brush his lips against the skin below her ear and she shivers at the sensation, "and you're an awful girlfriend who wanted to tease her boyfriend."

Gamora giggles, hand coming up to trace his back through his suit. "Interesting theory," she says, face slanted by the shadows his shoulders cast on her skin. Even in heels, Peter is still tall enough that she's level with his nose. "Care to elaborate?"

Her red-painted smirk is quickly interrupted by a large coughing noise in his ear and he flinches back. "What the hell!?"

Mantis sounds regretful. "I know from experience that if you start now, it'll never end. We're here for the case, Peter. Keep her distracted while I try to get close."

Against the wall, Gamora looks up at him unblinkingly, eyes slanted with suspicion. "What's going on?"

He smiles sheepishly, breathing in deeply and hoping she can't see through his lie.

"Headache," he explains, lying through his teeth, "it's been three days now and I guess the lighting isn't helping."

Gamora's face smooths out before being replaced with care. "Oh. Are you alright?"

He waves off her concern. "I'll be okay," he says, before smiling. "But I could use another glass of this."

"Let's go, then," she says, looping her arm through his. "I could also use some more champagne before this night is over."

They walk along the outer edge of the ballroom, and Peter looks at her quizzically. "The night just began."

Something flashes in her eyes. "Of course. I only meant that functions like this are not my forte and a few more glasses would certainly help with that. Thanos never taught us diplomacy."

"Not on his list of priorities?" he says and she wrinkles her nose.

"It was right after being able to stage a murder as a suicide but before learning to sew."

Peter laughs at that and she joins him. These last few months have yielded something tentative yet definite between them and he finds her more comfortable now bringing up her father.

Gamora nods at someone in passing as Peter reaches to hand her a new champagne flute. There are waiters all around the ballroom, balancing trays of both empty and full glasses and he holds out his. "To whoever the host of this gala is. They did a wonderful job."

She smiles at him as she takes a sip. "That would be me. Thank you."

He blinks. "Really? I thought Thanos wasn't into party planning."

Chuckling, Gamora rings a nude-painted nail around the rim of her glass, clean from red lipstick stains.

Huh.

Peter wonders if her lipstick would leave marks on his neck.

"He wasn't. But I went undercover so much as a teenager to events like this that I picked up the strange art of party planning. All the targets my father required to be eliminated were quite fond of these."

Her eyes seem to dim and he understands she's crossed the line of what she's comfortable with telling him without a thought. "Well," he coughs, setting his glass on the small side table to their immediate right, "let's hope you picked up dancing during your time as a spy."

Gamora looks down at his hand before setting her own flute down. "Are you asking me to dance, Mr. Quill?" she says as she takes his outstretched appendage and lets him lead her to the floor.

"I think you already said yes, Ms. Titan."

She wrinkles her nose. "No one calls me that."

"I'm sorry," he chuckles, "is it Your Royal Highness? Your heels kinda give you away; I've never met an assassin with such a liking for...finer things."

She smiles at that. On the crowded dance floor in the middle of the large room, Peter pulls her close and she sets her hand on his shoulder.

When his fingertips brush the skin at her exposed hip, she giggles at how his breath stutters. "Behave yourself, Mr. Quill. We _are_ in public."

Peter leans close so his breath pulls against the inner shell of her ear. "What if we weren't?"

He doesn't miss how _her_ breath stutters this time.

"Well," she breathes, so quietly he's sure he would miss it if they weren't so close, "Things would be different, wouldn't they?"

His response is cut off by his breath hitching.

She has buried her fingertips in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly, and the pressure has him biting off a moan. Gamora's eyes are wicked when she looks up at him, batting her eyelashes innocently.

"You okay?"

Peter all but growls. "You're evil."

Giggling, Gamora scans the room absentmindedly.

"I suppose."

Peter's hand presses into her lower back, forcing her to step closer until the fabric of her dress is flush with his jacket. "You," he breathes into her ear, "will regret that later."

Then he's gone.

From the side of the room, Peter winks at her over the rim of a fresh champagne glass before turning back to whoever he's talking to. Gamora grumbles, stomping off the dance floor as much as one [ can ] wearing heels as skinny and high as her.

"Rough night?" Nebula smirks, and she glares at her younger sister. 

"Shut up. Tell me we have good news."

The soft blue velvet of Nebula's dress, so uncharacteristic of her sister, catches Gamora's eye when she crosses her arm. "Well, Corvus hasn't left his wife's side at all and I think the Quills are here for reasons other than to have a fun night with dancing and champagne."

Gamora blinks. "What?"

Sighing, Nebula rubs her forehead. "I caught Mantis talking to herself. I think she has a commlink up with Peter-"

"-which means they're up to something."

Nebula inclines her head in a subdued nod and Gamora curses. "I knew Peter was lying."

At Nebula's stare, she waves her hand. "Later. Right now we need to figure out how to separate Corvus and Proxima and keep Peter and Mantis away from them."

"Good luck," her sister coughs, and points behind her.

In the middle of the ballroom, in the arms of Meredith Quill - Peter's little sister - is Proxima. The contrast of red silk against navy blue chiffon is striking, and it seems all eyes are on the pair as they dance, oblivious.

Behind her, Nebula curses and Gamora can only rub her forehead. What is going on?

"You find Peter, try to find out what's going on. I'll go look for Corvus; he won't be far from his wife."

Grudgingly, Nebula nods and disappears into the crowd in the direction of where her girlfriend giggles, spun out from the arms of their rival gang's boss.

Gamora prays she doesn't do anything brash and heads in the opposite direction.

Corvus lounges in one of the stiff armchairs rimming the edge of the room. Despite both being brought up under Thanos' rule, she has never met the man face-to-face and something akin to nerves stirs in her stomach.

She shakes her head, grabbing another flute from a passing waiter and making sure to sway her hips a little more with each step. Purposely, she sits daintily down in an armchair not far away and waits for Corvus to take the bait.

It doesn't take long.

"All alone, my dear?"

Her skin crawls with the oiliness in his voice but she plasters on a fake smile. "Oh! Hello. Yes," she looks out upon the crowd, "it seems I am. My date seems to have disappeared."

Corvus clicks his tongue. "How foolish of him. May I?"

She pretends to giggle, infatuated, although her skin crawls when he eyes the cutout in her dress. This was meant for Peter's gaze only, but pretends bile isn't rising in the back of her throat. "Of course! Where are my manners."

"Worry not, darling," Corvus all but purrs. "I am Corvus Glaive."

How does Proxima stand this man?

Extending her hand for him to take, she lets the corners of her mouth quirk upward in a move Thanos always told her was 'captivating'. Corvus takes her hand, planting a light kiss on the skin and her stomach rolls.

_He wasn't wrong._

"I am Gamora."

Gamora holds her breath for a moment. Will Corvus recognize her name from his time with Thanos? She prays for a second that his lack of brain cells comes in handy in this particular situation.

Either Corvus is that stupid, or God is real, because there's no change in expression. "What a beautiful name," Corvus says, and she hides a high-pitched giggle behind her hand.

"How you flatter."

He sits back in the chair, looking out at the crowd. "Do you not like galas? I don't understand how a ravishing young lady like yourself doesn't have suitors falling over themselves asking for a dance."

Gamora is getting _real_ tired of all this giggling.

"They're not my favorite thing," she admits, head turned down in shyness. "I've never been popular during them."

Corvus makes a sympathetic noise that sounds more like a growl combined with disbelief, like he can hardly believe his luck. "I find it hard to believe you aren't fought over during slow dances."

She sips her champagne, biding time, letting her eyes sweep the ballroom again. Anything to free herself from his oily gaze. Shrugging, she taps her nails against the flute and crosses her legs, letting the slit fall up her thighs.

Corvus follows the movement and she smirks.

Hook, line, and sinker.

"So," she says, leaning forward to let him see down the front of her dress with the excuse of putting her glass on the table, "tell me about yourself, Mr. Glaive. You don't look like someone who enjoys galas, no matter how handsome you look in a suit."

Corvus preens under her praise, chest puffing up and she bites her tongue to keep from choking on her words. She's seduced countless men and women in the last decade, but none have made her skin crawl with a single look.

Until now.

He's _vile._

"I run an... _independent_  business," Corvus says, hesitating slightly and she's barely able to stop her jaw from dropping with how _easy_   this is.

She might not even have to tempt him into the canvased hallway.

"Sounds interesting," she purrs, "I love a man who takes the initiative on his own fate. It shows he can do what's needed to succeed."

The words sound so fake she almost winces. _Don't blow it, Gamora._

Corvus eats it up. She doesn't know how long she sits there, listening to the man drone on about things she "wouldn't understand," which she barely holds back a laugh at.

_I know damn well what you mean._

"Corvus."

Gamora looks up into the nearly-black eyes of Proxima.

She smiles. "Oh, hello! You must be Proxima. I've heard so much about you."

Proxima eyes her hand in poorly-veiled disgust before turning to her husband. "I've been looking for you."

"Here I am," he gestures lazily, obviously tipsy. "Safe and sound and having a lovely conversation with - what was your name again darling? I can't seem to remember."

Gamora's giggle is quickly cut off by Proxima's glare. "You always do this," she sighs, rubbing her forehead with one navy glove and Crovus grumbles under his breath.

She looks between them before scampering off. In the last thirty minutes she's gotten more from Corvus than she could have ever hoped and as soon as the lock behind her clicks on the stall, she taps her earpiece twice.

"Please tell me you got that."

There's the sound of typing keys. "I got it," Nebula says. "Good job. Once you got him going he steamrolled."

"Proxima's going to be pissed," Gamora chuckles, and exits the stall to check her lipstick in the mirror. Even though she only had a single glass of champagne while Corvus had at least four during their talk, she purses her lips and reapplies.

The door opens. "Gamora?"

She turns. "Mantis?"

Peter's little sister smiles nervously, stepping into the bathroom to let the door fall closed behind her. "Hey. Did you see where Peter went? I haven't seen him since before-"

"-before you got Proxima to dance," Gamora says and Mantis blushes, looking down.

"Yeah."

Gamora folds her arms. "What are you two doing here, really? I know this isn't a coincidence we're both here; especially after how Nebula acted when she saw you with Proxima. What's going on?"

Mantis' face falls. "Was she upset?"

Leaning against the sink, Gamora sighs. "She wasn't happy, I can tell you that. Now. What's going on?"

There's silence for a minute.

"We got a lead in our latest case that concerns Proxima and Corvus - _specifically_ Proxima. It was my job tonight to get her to dance, distract her so Peter could look for something useful. Evidence to support our hunch, because that's all we have to run off of right now."

Gamora blinks. "You're here for the Black Order too?"

Mantis nods before her face falls slightly.

"You're here for Corvus, aren't you," she says, not as much asking as she is stating. "That's why you were chatting him up all this time."

"Yeah," Gamora breathes out, "I was trying to get information from him. He doesn't know I'm Zeherobi, we never met despite both being Thanos' children, but we got a tip yesterday the Black Order was planning on assassinating the leader of Endling."

Mantis is quiet.

"You," she whispers and Gamora nods.

"Me."

"So then why are you here? And how does he know who he's ordering to be killed if he doesn't know their face?"

"I don't know," she says honestly.

Mantis plays with one of the rings on her finger. "Peter saw you talking with Corvus."

Gamora blinks.

"Do you think that's why you haven't been able to find him?" she asks, and Mantis shrugs.

"That may be a big factor."

"Then I'll go find him," Gamora says, pushing herself off the side of the sink to check her makeup in the mirror one more time. "to explain. I'm sorry I kept this from you."

Mantis waves her off. "No problems. We kept the same secret from you and Nebula, after all."

Gamora shoots her a smile before slipping through the door. The tone of the dance floor has turned from swaying to waltzes and she raises herself on tiptoes.

Peter is nowhere to be seen.

Somehow, she ends up on the second floor. The large marble staircase leads to an upper level that overlooks the ballroom and loops around the entire side.

People mingle, sipping champagne and ringing laughter against the white walls. Gamora wanders, looking for the flop of messy curls slicked back tonight.

A hand wraps around her arm and yanks, and she stumbles.

Before she can yelp, something covers her mouth. "Shh, it's me."

Gamora looks up into Peter's green eyes, shoulders shaking with mirth. She licks his palm and when he pulls it away in disgust, smirks. "Payback for yanking me into a dark hallway during an event. You should be glad I didn't break your wrist."

"I knew you wouldn't," he exclaims, but she can see the slight fear in his eyes as he rubs his wrist with his thumb.

She curses internally. _Good job, Gamora._

"Where were you?"

The question distracts him.

"I uh - had something I had to do."

"Mantis already told me about getting information out of Proxima," she says, rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms, "so there's no use in lying now. I'm here for ulterior motives as well."

Peter blinks. "Wait, really?"

"A few days ago we got a tip that the Black Order was planning an assassination on the boss of their rival gang," she sighs, looking down.

"You," Peter says quietly and she nods.

"Me."

There's silence for a few seconds.

"Thank you for telling me."

Her head shoots up. "You're not mad?" she questions, incredulous.

"Well yeah," he says, leaning back against the wall and shrugging, "but considering the last time you kept something from me it spanned a decade, your track record looks fantastic."

Gamora snorts. "Point."

"So you're here for Corvus?"

At her surprised look, Peter grins lopsidedly. "I knew he was the head of the Black Order, but I had no clue his rival gang was yours."

"Shh!" she hisses, covering his mouth and looking around wildly. When no one comes running to accuse her of being the head of the Endlings, she turns back to her beau, relaxes a bit.

"Talk a little louder next time," she all but sighs, irritated, "I don't think he heard you."

Peter smirks down at her from behind her palm and she realizes how close she's gotten. Her chest is pressed firmly into his, and a sudden gust of cold wind has her shivering imperceptibly.

His hand encircles her bicep. "Cold?"

"Slightly," she says, and he drapes his jacket around her shoulders.

She claims his lips a second later.

Balancing on five-inch heels, while aesthetically pleasing, is not the easiest thing. Gamora was trained to be able to kill a man using a plastic fork, but stiletto heels are waters she's learned to navigate herself.

Peter chuckles against her lips when she wobbles. Pulling her impossibly closer, he wraps his arms fully around her. "Need help m'lady?"

"Shut up," she breathes and pulls him down firmly by the collar of his shirt.

His jacket is slipping off her shoulders but she doesn't care, pressing closer and closer. Peter's hands are encircled around her waist and she tilts her head, letting his tongue slip past her red-painted lips.

"What happened to inconspicuous," he pants, and she smirks.

"I canvased the cameras on each of the hallways," Gamora pants, "and this is a very _fortunate_ blindspot, it seems."

Peter's returning smile is something she completely misses because his eyes darken with lust. "Interesting."

Gamora chuckles, hand pressing to the front of his jeans as he leans down to nip at her neck.

"So it seems."

She pulls at his hair and he bites back a moan, head tilting back.

"No marks," she says sternly, and Peter nods a little _too_ eagerly.

"Yes ma'am."

This goes on for some time, and she runs her hands up and down his sides. Peter's mouth wanders from her neck to the exposed skin of her chest and she hooks her fingers in the belt loops of his slacks.

"You look so good tonight," she breathes, tracing the stitching at the hips. "I wish you would wear suits more often."

Peter's smile is tangible against her skin. "We would match, then."

"Mmmm," she hums in agreement.

His hand rests on the side of her thigh and she arches softly into the touch, fingernails scraping at his scalp at the feeling.

"I feel like this is a ruse for you to divest me of my clothes more often."

"Maybe," she says, and her laugh fades into a long, drawn-out moan when his fingertips trail to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

"Peter," she groans, and his pinkie skims the skin barely covered by the little lacy thong underneath her dress.

"You wore it," he pants into her ear, and she smirks.

"Maybe. You should take it off me and find out."

His lips crashing into hers in a bruising kiss, Gamora leans eagerly into it. Not caring about how her lipstick is probably smeared around his mouth, her fingernails dig into his arms as they trail down his figure.

"Not a sound," she warns, licking her lips and Peter's eyes go dark.

"Wha-"

Whatever he was going to say is cut off sharply by a moan when she sinks to her knees. Peter's fingers itch to bury themselves in her curls but her slicked-back hair is too perfect for him to muss.

The marble floor is cold beneath her knees and for a moment, she just looks up at him. On her haunches, heels pressed into her ass, Gamora simply admires her boyfriend.

It's no secret Peter is hot.

Standing above her, pinned against to the wall by her hands on his thighs, Peter's chest heaves. The flush that works its way up the side of his neck and cheeks when she plants kisses along the fabric overtop of his legs is nothing short of hot and Gamora observes his rumpled curls, over-blown pupils.

"Hands against the wall," she purrs. "Touch me and I'm gone. If you behave you'll get a reward. Got it?"

Peter nods, biting his lip and she frowns. "Answer me," she says harshly, reaching up and squeezing the bulge in his slacks directly and hips buck against her palm.

"G-got it," he pants.

Gamora smiles. "Good. Now, relax."

For a few minutes, she simply scrapes her fingernails up and down his slacks. The fabric is soft, but stiff in a way that makes her movement rumple the obviously-pressed edges.

"Please," Peter moans and she smirks up at him.

"Please what?"

His head rests against the wall, and the thoroughly debauched look in his eyes makes her abdomen flush. "P-please-"

Gamora tuts. "You're so easy to rile up," she smirks, squeezing at the bulge and moving away quickly at his resounding moan, "I love teasing you like this until you're squirming underneath me and beg for me to touch you."

If possible, Peter grows [ harder ] at her words and the smug look in her eyes confirms she feels it.

"You like it, don't you," she bites out, "when I pin you like this and tease you until you come in your pants. What a good little slut."

Peter throws his head back, panting. He's trembling underneath her and the triumphant look in her eyes only eggs her on. "I think I'm going to suck you off," she purrs, "and then ride you against the wall until I have to stick my fingers in your mouth so you don't yell."

She holds down his bucking hips with her palms. There's sweat dripping down his face, chest heaving with every breath, muscles in his legs quivering with every swipe of her hand.

Gamora hasn't even touched skin yet.

"But you'd enjoy that wouldn't you," she smirks, "having everyone hear you scream my name...run down the hallway...just to find you pinned to the wall by my hands...knowing you can't escape...having them watch as I finish you off..."

Peter's hips are rolling now, craving friction like a drug. There's sweat running underneath his shirt, sticking to his skin and she smooths a hand over the fabric absentmindedly.

Gamora presses a hand to the bulge directly and he keens. "Settle," she says, making sure every breath is close enough for him to feel through his pants, and he stills almost instantly.

She makes the mistake of looking up at him.

This time, it's _her_ holding back a moan. Peter looks absolutely delicious, completely ravishing, and the way his bottom lip sinks between his teeth makes her press her thighs together.

Nimble fingertips dance across the hem of his pants and when she pops the first button, she swears the sound ricochets down the hall.

Peter's following moan definitely does.

No one comes investigating, though, so she lathes her tongue over the top of his exposed boxers and holds down his hips. The other button comes undone quickly, and each path of skin exposed by her fingers as she pulls his slacks done is covered in open-mouthed kisses.

She's ghosting her mouth over the bulge of fabric, appreciating the dark blue of his boxers against the paleness of his muscular thighs when the lights in their hallway shut off.

Gamora pauses.

Down below, she can hear the raised, panicked voices of the other people. There's a mistrust in their tone, and she strains to hear anything else.

Against the wall, Peter whispers "what?" just in time for a frantic man's voice to echo through invisible speakers in the walls.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to have to ask you to evacuate. There's been a breach in security and a small fire has been spotted a few floors below. Please exit the nearest door and we hope to continue the festivities soon, I apologize for the inconvenience."

For a second, all Gamora can do is stare up at Peter.

He laughs first, slumping against the wall. "Oh man," he gasps, "I can't believe I just got cock-blocked by a fire alarm."

Gamora stands to kiss him, tucking him back into his pants and buttoning them while capturing his lips.

"I guess we'll have to finish this later."

She watches his eyes darken, and his hands come around to rest on her hips, keeping them where they are against the wall. "I look forward to it."

Chuckling, she pulls away. "Come on," she whispers, "we better get into the crowd before anyone notices we're gone."

They're halfway down the hall, nearing the marble stairs when she looks over the banister just in time to hear Peter gasp.

"Em?"

Gamora's head shoots up. Under the flashing red lights of the fire alarm, everyone is a bit hazy, but she instantly recognizes the deep red of Peter's half-sister's dress and the soft blue velvet of her _own_ sister's dress.

"Oh, hi Peter!"

They meet in the middle, and Gamora narrows her eyes. There's a guilty tilt to Mantis' smile and Nebula all but avoids her older sister's eyes. She doesn't put it all together until Mantis unconsciously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear while talking to Peter and she gasps.

Nebula looks at her with a raised eyebrow.

"You were making out in some hallway back there, weren't you," Gamora says, pointing a finger between them and the following blush on Mantis' cheeks tells her enough.

Peter's mouth gapes open comically and he whirls on his sister. "Mantis?!"

Cocking a hip, Nebula snorts. "Oh please," she says, "don't act so innocent. The lights may be off but I could see the obvious bulge in Peter's pants a mile away."

It's the older Quill's turn to blush now and she runs a hand down her face. There's an awkward silence, and Mantis attempts to adjust the slit in her dress back to the original position before catching Gamora's eye and stilling.

Below them, people are still milling around in an attempt to get out three of the fire exits near and she jerks her head.

"We should go."

Peter clears his throat. "Great idea."

She loops her arm through his, and they start their descent. It's slow going, both being careful of Gamora's heels on the slippery surface no longer aided by the dazzling chandeliers high above them, but somehow they manage.

"I'm tempted just to take these off and make a run for it," she jokes quietly, and Peter snorts. "Ten bucks says you wouldn't."

At the bottom of the stairs, they slip into silence. In the chaos of everyone trying to get out as quickly as possible under the threat of a fire, it's not hard for them to blend in with the crowd.

Peter holds her arm tighter to him. "Stay close," he whispers, "I have a bad feeling about this."

She arches an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It's just convenient, y'know. A fire alarm AND security breach on the one night there's a gala where you attempt to seduce the boss of your rival gang after he puts out a threat on your life."

Gamora waves away his concern. "I'm sure it's nothing."

It feels like nothing.

People hurry down the front marble stairs of the museum in waves, and through the crowd Gamora sees two cop cars pull up. "Relax," Peter whispers in her ear and she takes a breath.

He steps ahead of her, turning around to extend his hand. "Here, let me help."

Gamora smiles crookedly, taking his help on the large, flatter stair towards the top of the staircase. Peter's hand is warm in hers, and the smile that passes between them is so adoring she feels her stomach flutter in a way that's not related to their time in the hallway.

_Love._

She's just stepping down when it happens.

"GUN!" Someone yells, and she doesn't see the shot. All she sees is everyone falling, screaming, and something wet hitting her face.

A shaky hand strokes at her cheek and comes away crimson. She looks up into the horrified face of Peter, and her heart beats wildly for a completely different reason.

_"-Peter?"_

When he falls, she screams, and screams, _and screams_ , vision stained the same red that spreads across the vast white of his shirt, the same shirt she had just run her hands all over. In the distance, someone is sobbing, and Gamora doesn't realize it's her until tears drip onto the hands shoved into the wound right over her beloved's heart.

"PETER!" she screeches, left ankle throbbing in time to her horrified heartbeat, and his eyes connect with hers for a split second before sliding close.

Gamora wails.

Hands pull at her and she kicks. "NO!" she screams, hair wild around her face, _"PETER! NO!"_

There's people swarming them now, bright yellow vests clouding her vision. This time, the person crying is not her, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the screaming, hysterical figure of a woman with dark hair and a bright red dress scrambling for the crowd that now surrounds Peter.

Gamora sees his curls beneath her fingers, the lazy smile on mornings she stayed longer than when his mouth made her fly between the sheets. Gamora sees the pancakes and the coffee and the smeared lipstick and the smiles over mugs in small cafes on Saturday afternoons.

Gamora sees _him._

Gamora sees his bright green eyes, so filled with mirth and love, slide close.

Is it the last time?

There's a stab in her arm, and as the world goes hazy around her, she wonders if the suit jacket around her shoulders will be given back to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd say get wrekt but...................peter is already there
> 
> COME YELL AT ME ON TWITTER AT @STARRYMORA


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can say is i'm sorry.

When she closes her eyes, the flashing red and blue lights are burned into her eyelids. She leans over the sink, breathing heavy, shaking hands scrubbing at the flaking red beneath her nails.

Peter's jacket is still around her shoulders.

_Drax's hands hold her down, protecting her from a shot that was meant for her, for her, for her, and she's screaming. Her left ankle throbs and her head screeches as the people surround Peter, blocking him from view._

Her finger slips against the counter, catching on a chipped edge.

She doesn't feel it.

Can she feel anything anymore?

_Can Peter?_

Almost fascinated, she watches the drop of blood bead up before sliding down the pad of her pointer finger.

_There's blood on the sidewalk, dripping off the side of the stretcher, and she can't reach him, can't reach him - he's too far, growing farther away, and she's screaming, reaching -_

A knock on the bathroom door. "Miss Gamora?"

She straightens. "Yes?"

"The doctors have sent for Meredith and Nebula," her bodyguard says, voice muffled by the locked door between them, "I thought you would like to know. Are you alright?"

Gamora looks straight into the mirror and laughs bitterly.

Drax falls silent.

"I'll be out in a minute. Thank you."

_"I'M HIS SISTER!" Mantis cries, stumbling over to the ambulance doors, makeup streaming down her face. "LET ME IN!"_

_The EMT exchanges a look with someone inside. "She has to stay," she says, indicating to Nebula, "only family is allowed in."_

_Mantis' hand tightens around Nebula's, almost standing up straighter. "She is," she announces, lifting her chin, "she's my wife, she's coming with me."_

_Nebula doesn't look back as she scrambles inside beside her girlfriend - [ her wife. ] When she sits, Gamora catches sight of a necklace beneath the collar of her dress, and Drax lets her up._

_She stands, and watches the ambulance containing the love of her life drive off._

_"We have to get you to a secure location," Drax says, hand pressed to his earpiece, "Rocket says the south safehouse is clean-"_

_She's already walking away, limping, and he's at her arm in an instant. "I'm going to the hospital," she says, hissing, when he grabs her arm and she whirls around, "I won't leave him again."_

_Drax falls silent and she stares at him, hard, unwavering._

_"Wait here."_

_She's left standing on the stairs, torn dress hanging from her figure, and she doesn't care. In a moment, her car pulls up and he climbs out, pulling open the backseat. Rocket's going to kill me."_

_Wordlessly, she thanks him before looking down at the extended hand._

Then.

_He steps ahead of her, turning around to extend his hand. "Here, let me help."_

_Love -_

_\- She's just stepping down when it happens._

_"GUN!"_

_Crimson?_

_Her face is wet._

_"-Peter?"_

_She screams._

After.

_She gets into the front seat without help, and Drax doesn't say a single thing the entire way there, but his knuckles are white against the steering wheel._

_He doesn't go easy on the curves and she looks down at the swollen angle of her ankle._

_Does it matter anymore?_

_She doesn't remember losing her heels._

Now?

She doesn't know.

Gamora breathes out, wiping her hands across the shredded paper towels before balling them up. She doesn't look when she throws them away, unlocks the door, swings it open.

Her bodyguard is right outside, and she avoids his sympathetic gaze.

"Follow me."

They walk in silence, the only sound the click of her single crutch. Drax has never been one for words, and she's grateful.

Then they turn the corner, Mantis breaks away from Nebula's embrace to run straight into hers. "I'm sorry!" Peter's little sister wails into her chest, and her blood runs cold for a second.

_Is he already gone? Has she said goodbye already?_

"M-Mantis? Is he okay?"

Over her head, Nebula nods. She stands away from the hug, not conspicuously avoiding her sister's gaze. "He is still in surgery, but the doctors are hopeful. They sent us out here because we were in the way."

Gamora nods, hugging Mantis _\- her sister-in-law? -_ closer.

She needs to talk to Nebula.

Her younger sister catches her gaze for long enough to nod. Satisfied, Gamora rests her cheek on the crown of Mantis' head and rubs circles into her back.

There's still Peter's blood underneath her fingernails, and her perfectly slicked-back hair now falls around her cheekbones in greasy strands. Heels lost long ago, she shuffles to the waiting room in the emergency room in socks provided by the hospital after they bandaged and splinted her broken ankle.

After Drax helps her into one of the stiff-backed chairs and sets aside her crutch, she pins her gaze on the two women across from her. "How long?"

Mantis looks down at her and Nebula's intertwined hands.

"A year," she whispers, and Gamora's eyes go wide.

"Why didn't you tell me," she murmurs, and Nebula closes her eyes at her sister's obviously hurt tone.

"We were afraid."

"Afraid!" she yells, indignant. "AFRAID?!"

Nebula's head shoots up as Mantis retreats into herself. _"Yes!"_ she yells back, fists clenching, "WE WERE AFRAID! PETER DIDN'T KNOW YET, AND WE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THE FUTURE HELD."

All the anger drains out of her as Gamora remembers exactly _what_  happened a year ago.

She remembers Nebula wheezing, the pure panic that had cracked up her spine when she collapsed, lips blue, the whites of her eyes rolling up into her head. She remembers the whispers of the doctors outside the door, the helplessness in the form of bile in the bottom of the hospital's toilet.

_Terminal._

Nebula must be able to see the way the fight leaves her body because she sags too, sitting back down. The second she does, Mantis pulls her close and they sit like that for a while.

Minutes _\- hours? seconds? days? -_ later, Mantis licks her lips.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, so quiet Gamora would've missed it if not for the way Peter's sister sniffs after.

Gamora looks at her quizzically. "What for? I should be the one apologizing for yelling. I am grateful you went in the ambulance with him. He shouldn't have been alone."

Meredith Quill seems to retreat further inside herself at that. Nebula rubs her arm soothingly, and Gamora watches nervous fingers retreat into the coat draped around her shoulders.

"H-he," she takes a deep breath, eyes glassy, and pulls her hand out of the pocket, "he told me to give this to you. Before they took him in for surgery."

Gold glints dully under the fluorescent hospital lights.

Gamora sucks in a shaky breath. "Is this-?"

Nebula nods, wrapping an arm around Mantis' shoulders as her wife leans forward to set it into Gamora's palm. "It fell out during the ride. It was the last time he spoke before his lungs got too full."

Her eyes go wide and she clutches the ring to her chest, breath coming quick like she's been punched in the gut.

Hasn't she?

"Full of blood," she specifics, and it's not a question.

Mantis looks down.

"Yes. They had to cut a hole in his chest to drain his lungs or he would've died on the way here. The doctor said before he kicked us out that because of your quick thinking, he has a better chance of surviving."

She must look confused because Nebula jumps in. "I don't know if you registered it but you took off the fabric from your dress and kept pressure on the wound until the EMT's got there."

Her breath leaves her lungs in one fell swoop. Somewhere, beyond the maze of hallways, Peter is lying on a table with his chest pried open, and she's the reason he's there.

In more ways than either of them know.

"Excuse me," she mutters, standing so quickly her head spins, but she doesn't dare stop, "I need to make a call."

Rocket, unsurprisingly, agrees, in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

She ignores that.

Gamora doesn't know where she is. In the hurry to escape the miserable looks of Mantis and sympathetic-almost-suspicious ones from her sister, she had wandered until it was quieter, darker, and she found she could breathe.

Her crutch is gone, and her eyes sting. 

She reminds herself the throbbing of her ankle is well-deserved.

Closing her eyes, she leans her forehead against the wallpapered wall before pivoting her body and letting it slide to the floor. The linoleum tiles are cold beneath the thin material of her dress but she doesn't care.

In the dim light, she pulls her knees to her chest and inspects the band around her finger.

_Peter._

Breath rattling in her lungs, she tilts the ring this way and that, watching the way it glints and glitters. It's a simple thing, actually, but every movement is a realization, an understanding.

Gamora had never been the one for weddings, for rings, for that four-letter word that had become so common around her yet foreign. She remembers the warmth in her chest when Peter slung his arm around her in the hallway, the feeling in her breast when he pulled her close under the old oak and kissed her deeply, his letterman jacket hanging off her elbows.

She remembers the heat under her skin when his hand rested on her thigh under the table during family dinners and he would pretend to listen to whatever Yondu was saying, when she traced fingertips down the planes of his stomach until she reached _him,_ solid and warm in her hand.

Everything about the ring is stunningly simple, unlike everything in her entirety of life in retrospect. There's blood on her hands - both figuratively and literally - and she holds the ring with shaking hands.

Does she deserve this?

 _No,_ her mind hisses.

The diamond is oval-cut, held in place by delicate gold prongs. The band is thin, curved, and the weight between her fingers as she inspects it feels like Peter's smile during breakfast.

"Gamora?"

Her head whips up, shoulders tensing, but it's only Drax.

She straightens. "Yes?"

Drac clears his throat, coming to a stop next to her. "Rocket thought - I thought you might need a change of clothes. Mr. Quill is out of surgery and the doctors will be calling Nebula and her wife soon, I presume. You might want to change before that, though."

Remembering the thin fabric on her body and the wetness that splotches it even now isn't a bad dream, she nods curtly. "Thank you," she nods, sliding the room back onto her finger and noting how her bodyguard doesn't extend his hand to help her up.

"I'll leave you to it," he says and turns on his heel.

"Drax, wait."

Her bodyguard freezes. "Miss Gamora?"

"Thank you," she says sincerely, "for everything." She takes a deep breath, reaching for the crutches she had half-heartedly dragged along into the dark corner of this hallway. "Please inform my sister I will be ready soon."

Drax nods once, and she swears she sees his face soften. "Very good."

"Will you wait?"

It doesn't escape either of their notices that she asks.

She has never asked for something before.

His mouth tilts upwards, barely, and she finds her chest looser when he does. "Of course."

The dark blue knitted turtleneck feels like heaven against her skin and she balls up the ballgown without looking twice, stuffs it in the trash. The outfit is deceivingly simple; light-wash, jeans, two-inch ankle boots, teal overcoat, and she takes a shaky breath in the mirror.

Under the fluorescent hospital lighting, the circles under her eyes look like bruises. Despite looking - and feeling - like she's going to fall over any second from lack of sleep, she tucks her hair behind her ears.

Drax knocks on the door. "It's time. The doctor just called for them."

With a final look in the mirror where she can barely look herself in the face without feeling like puking, Gamora exits the bathroom.

Meredith and Nebula are still in the waiting room, this time in the process of standing as a man approaches them. "Family of Peter Jason Quill?"

His younger sister nods, clings to Nebula, and Gamora has a sneaking suspicion that's the only thing keeping her upright.

She knows the feeling.

"Is this everyone?"

"No," Nebula and her say at the same time, and the doctor turns.

"Are you related?"

Gamora glances over at Nebula. "I'm his sister's sister-in-law."

The doctor nods, turning back to the group. "Alright then. Please follow me, ladies, we need to talk privately."

The room they're ushered into is the same, bland, off-white as the rest of the walls at the hospital. The only saving grace, however, is the slightly dimmed lights, but the chairs are the same hardness she remembers from when she was in with Nebula last year.

"First off," the doctor says, pulling in his chair and setting down the bundle of papers in his arms, "is that without Miss Gamora's quick thinking, Mr. Quill wouldn't be here."

Mantis breathes out harshly and Nebula's hand tightens around hers.

"Second. The bullet we pulled out was a soft lead caliber .45, and deformed upon impact. We had to insert not only a chest tube to drain the blood from his lungs from a piece of shrapnel but an endotracheal tube to help him breathe. He's still out from the pain medication, and we have him hooked to an IV and transfusion bag to try and help him replenish all the blood he lost."

Gamora leans forward. "The bullet was a .45 caliber?"

"Yes," the doctor says. He looks at her oddly. "Does that mean something to you?"

Nebula's gaze burns holes into the side of her head but she shakes her head, leaning back in her chair. "No, I'm sorry. Continue."

"Mr. Quill is on a ventilator, but we hope he can be taken off it once he wakes. What we're trying to avoid is pneumonia, which can set in very quickly with the ET tube and antibiotics because his immune system is, for lack of a better word, offline right now."

"How long until we can see him?"

The doctor - whose dull, metal name tag states his name is Harrington - sighs. "I don't know, Miss Quill," he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Hopefully within the next hour, but it all depends if he stays in a constant state. We had to remove two small parts of his right lung because they were just too damaged from the bullet, and while we're hopeful the MRI scan got all the pieces, we're going to be keeping a close eye on him."

Nebula's eyes look suspiciously glassy, but Gamora can only hear the same line on repeat, running through her head, banging up against her skull.

"You said you had to remove part of his lungs?"

Doctor Harrington nods patiently. "Yes. We had to remove two small sections from the middle lobe of his left lung, and it's very fortunate we got to those pieces of shrapnel when we did. Otherwise, they would have burrowed deeper and circulated into his right lung, which led to the lingula."

"His heart."

"Yes," he says, and Gamora sucks in a breath.

"How many pieces of the bullet did you remove?"

"I can't say. I'm sorry."

She closes her eyes. "Alright."

There's the scraping of chair legs on the tiled floor, and she stands tiredly, watching as he walks to the door, opening it. "I am sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. There are two police officers in the waiting room to take testimonies and I'll come find you when it's safe to visit Mr. Quill."

Mantis nods her thanks and shakes his hand in passing. While there's trails of makeup still streaking down on her face, her shoulders are set straight.

Gamora brings up the back of the line, and she takes Doctor Harrington's hand in both of hers. Both Mantis and Nebula have their back turned, so she leans close.

"How much of a chance does he have," she whispers, pleading. "Don't lie. Please."

Doctor Harrington sighs. "If he makes it through the night, there's a 60% chance of recovery. These next few hours will determine if he makes it to midnight at all."

Gamora glances at the clock.

_10:17 PM_

"Are you sure?"

The doctor pulls back, shaking his head sadly. "I'm sorry."

Her head spins, and she thinks she nods. "Thank you," she stutters and takes off down the hall, Nebula's worried cry following her.

She bangs through the bathroom floor, drops to her knees, and throws up everything in her stomach. Tears burn at her eyes and the world shakes before her, and she grips the side of the toilet, sobbing.

_If he makes it through the night._

No one comes to check on her.

Gamora cleans stomach acid champagne off her sweater in the dirty mirror, buttons up her coat to chase away the shivers that wrack up her spine.

In the waiting room, just as Doctor Harrington said, there's two police officers. Both sit across from Mantis and Nebula, and tension rolls in her stomach at the sight of them, threatening to empty her stomach right here, right now.

The second officer looks up as she approaches. "Miss Gamora?"

"Yes?" she says, forcing a smile onto her face, and the officer's returning smile is sympathetic. "Follow me, please."

The next room she's lead into is cold, bright, and her head spins. "What's this about?"

Officer Rael pulls out a chair. "Sit, please."

The metal is cold through her jeans.

"Eyewitnesses at the scene say you were to closest to Mr. Quill when he was shot," the officer says, and she nods. "Can you tell me what happened? You were the only person who saw what happened up close, and all I need is your story on how things went. We have CSI at the scene right now, and tech combing through any camera feeds outside the museum, but your testimony would be helpful."

Gamora takes a breath.

"He said it was suspicious," she whispers.

Officer Rael's pen scrapes harshly across her notepad. "About what?"

"That the fire alarm went off and we were told to evacuate, despite there being no smoke." _White lie #1._ "He said something was going on, but I told him he was just being paranoid."

_White lie #2._

_How many will she tell tonight?_

"Is that the only reason he was uneasy? Try to remember everything, even if it seems insignificant."

"Peter is always paranoid," she says, staring down at the table, hoping the officer is writing her lack of eye contact as everything except her lying through her teeth. "I guess it did seem off - all the guests were in the ballroom, so where else would there be a fire?"

"Surveillance revealed someone tripped the alarm electronically," the officer says, and Gamora can feel her gaze on her. "Does Mr. Quill have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt him?"

Gamora sighs, shoulders falling. "Probably. He never talked about it extensively, but I knew he took cases all the time that dealt with dangerous people."

"Like gangs?"

She lifts her head. "Huh?"

Officer Rael flips through her notes. "According to the guest list, there was one known crime syndicate boss at the gala, Corvus and Proxima Midnight. Do you know if Mr. Quill ever came in contact with them?"

She shakes her head.

The officer marks something on her notepad. "Tell me what else happened. What was he doing when the shot went off?"

Tears rise and she wills them away. She isn't successful.

"Peter was helping me down a stair," she says shakily, picking at her fingernails, bile rising in her throat as she remembers the look on his face and how everything froze when the cry rang out. "He went down before me, turned, and stretched out his hand..."

A hand appears in her swimming vision and she takes the tissue. "Thank you," she says, wiping at her eyes, not caring about the smeared makeup and the officer nods.

"Do not worry, Miss Gamora. We will find whoever did this. Is there anything else you can remember? We're almost done, I promise."

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she sniffs, twisting the tissue in her palms. "Everything happened so fast and I wish I could help more."

"It's alright," Officer Rael says, smiling sadly. "We can do this later. I know it's hard right now but we're doing everything we can."

She holds out a card. "Call me if you remember anything else, okay?"

Gamora nods, taking it with a shaky hand. She drops her gaze back to the table, and the officer opens the door. "I'll tell your sister and her wife you'll be out in a minute. Take all the time you need."

Then she's alone.

Again.

As soon as the door clicks closed behind her, she draws her shoulders straight. The tissue is shredded to pieces in her lap and she runs through their conversation.

_Peter tangling with gang activity. Work. The fire alarm being triggered electronically, no report of an actual fire during searches._

She stares at the wall.

The shot was meant for her.

_He was at the wrong place at the wrong time._

It'll be her fault if he dies.

The door bangs close behind her, and both Nebula and Mantis' heads shoot up. Red rims Mantis' eyes and Gamora sinks back into the uncomfortable hospital chair.

Her ankle screams.

Silence.

"Did they find anything helpful?"

"No," she says mournfully, "I'm sorry Meredith."

She nods, looking numbly down at her hands and Gamora clears her throat. "Can I steal Nebula for a minute? I need to talk about her."

Mantis bits her lip, nods. Nebula squeezes her hand before standing up, and her dress, splattered in blood, ripples around her legs.

"Follow me."

When they're far enough away Nebula can still see her wife without being heard, Gamora drops her voice to a whisper. "I lied. The officer told me that the fire alarm was triggered electronically from a secondary location, and they found the guest list. She guesses Peter's work got him tangled in gang activity and this was a way to keep him quiet from _something."_

Nebula smirks, crossing her arms. "Oh, he was tangled in gang activity. I have proof."

Gamora glares at her, on the verge of growling. "Not helping."

"Sorry," her sister snickers for a moment, until her eyes wander back to the way Mantis' shoulders slump as she stares blankly at the all-white waiting room. Her smile drops. "How can I help."

"Both you and Meredith need clothes. If you could run back to their apartment and pick her up something to wear, that would be great. Drax already fished my dress out of the trash and'll probably ask for yours as well as evidence. We have to get them to Nova as soon as possible to analyze them ourselves before the police can. We do this quickly, and quietly."

Nebula nods. "Anything else? What about Corvus?"

"I'll take care of that," she says lowly. The look in Nebula's eyes is knowing, but she doesn't say a thing.

She knows what she has to do.

"Drax."

Her bodyguard looks up from his position next to Mantis. Arm around her shoulders, he clears his throat before straightening up. "Miss Gamora?"

"Let's go."

Something in his eyes hardens and she knows he _understands._

She turns her phone off.

This is something she has to do alone. If Nebula or Mantis get wind of what she's about to do before she can do it, Gamora knows she'll lose steam. They'll coax her back, and she'll spend the rest of her days knowing only she knows the truth.

Gamora isn't stupid. She's seen the way Nebula has hovered around Mantis the past month, and the way her wife's cheeks seem to glow.

She hadn't said anything.

Nebula doesn't deserve this. She's a part of something now - something bigger than a crime syndicate. She'll need stability, she'll need to be there for her wife as they start the next part of their lives together.

_Together._

She stops dead in her tracks. _Together._

The only way to do this is to go to the source. To take out the only way she's ever known living from the inside. And that's through her.

If she walks back in now, she'll sit in that hard plastic chair for hours. She'll cry when she gets the news Peter is alright - she'll be at his side when he wakes, her hand wrapped around his. He'll blink awake and the first thing she'll tell him are those three words she's held back on.

He'll cry when Mantis flings herself into his arms and tells him the good news, that the embryo has taken, he's going to be an uncle. Nebula will stand by the bed, just close enough to radiate warmth but far enough away Peter won't be able to reach for her to bring her in, too.

Peter will reach anyways, and Gamora will push her younger sister into the hug. He'll smile tearily at her over their heads, and she's mouth _later_.

And for them, for these imaginary them she's made up, three steps outside of the hospital entrance and a gun on her hip, there will be a later.

For her, though, there will not be a later.

For him, maybe, there will be.

And that is all she can hope for.

Drax is wordless when she slides into the backseat. She squares her shoulders.

"Drive. We have business to attend to."

The tires squeal against the pavement and Nebula watches, silently.

"What's she doing?"

She turns. Mantis is back in her chair, an unopened water bottle on the side table next to her, and her hair falls in strands in front of her face.

"Probably taking our dresses to forensic. Now, drink."

Mantis licks her dry lips, reaching for the bottle, and Nebula turns back to the window. She thumbs over her phone, and Gamora's number goes straight to voicemail.

She clicks it off.

"Neb?"

"Hmm?"

The younger Titan sister turns from her spot in front of the window as Mantis twists her hands in her lap. "I need help."

Nebula is there in an instant.

"Are you alright? Do you need to lay down - is there anything I can do? I can call for a nurse or-"

"-I'm fine," her wife huffs but takes the offered hand anyways and pulls her down. "I need you to look me straight in the eye and swear to me that whatever Gamora is about to do, you had no part in it or have no clue what she's up to."

Nebula freezes. "Huh?"

"Please," Mantis says, pleading now, her hands in Nebula's, "I need to know that you did everything to stop her if you know what she's about to do and aren't a part of it."

Her voice drops into a whisper. "I can't lose you too."

Nebula wraps her arms around her and pulls her close.

"I don't know," she says, and her voice is scratchy. "I don't know what she's going to do, but I have to trust her, you have to trust me. You are more important right now, and so is being here. She can take care of herself."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Sighing, she pulls back. "I promise," she says, settling her hands on Mantis' shoulders, "that I do not know what she's going to do, and when I pried she shut me out. I'm as clueless as you."

"You need to go after her," Mantis rasps, and Nebula shakes her head.

"I am staying right here until your idiot of a brother wakes up and I get to see his face when he finds out you're pregnant. Drax and I have a bet going over whether he'll cry or not."

Mantis blinks. "Of course he will. He's my brother."

Chuckling, Nebula rubs her thumb across her wife's collarbone. "I know that," she winks, "but Drax doesn't."

"I forgot he still thinks men are emotionless," Mantis giggles lightly and that fist around her heart eases. There's still makeup rimming her eyes, dried by now, and tears in her dress, but Meredith Quill isn't that easily defeated.

Nebula hopes her sister is the same.

There's a bitter taste in the back of her throat when she smiles tightly back. Lying to Mantis has never been easy, so she's avoided doing so for as long as possible.

Today, though, she can't.

* * *

Gamora's phone buzzes in her pocket and she stares out the window, past all the buildings and straight into the sky. Wandering fingers trace the delicate outline of the ring in her pocket, turning it over and over, and she blinks when the car comes to a stop.

"Are you sure, Gamora?"

Drax looks uneasily at her from the front seat. He has never called her by her name and she knows her hands are shaking. She shoves them deeper into her pockets.

She can't mess this up now.

It's all up to her.

Will Peter wake up to a world where Corvus Glaive runs free, where gangs roam a defenseless city? Will he wake to a world where she is at his side, and he doesn't ask questions about the shrapnel in his heart, moving with every beat?

Will she lie, again and again, calling it love?

Calling it safety?

She can change it all.

Gamora squares her shoulders.

She can't lie any longer, she will not run, will not hide.

_"Always attack from the front," her bastard father hisses in her ear, pressing the blade further into the sensitive skin at her nape, and she doesn't make a sound. "They are always most vulnerable where they can see you. Trust, you see, can blind."_

"Goodbye, Drax."

The step down out of the car brings her back to that moment, hair pinned at the nape of her neck, dress in hand. Peter is smiling up at her, radiating, and he falls, so fast, so far, unreachable, unattainable -

It is dawn, and she doesn't look when she slams the car door.

Her hand is on the handle when her phone goes off, and against everything screaming inside her, every tendon and every muscle, she swipes.

 _"Gamora,"_ someone breathes out, and her knees go weak. _"You're okay."_

She clamps a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes for a split second. She will give herself this moment, imagine a time where she was there to see his eyes split open and smile, not on the other side of the phone, about to set the world they've only ever known on its heel.

 _"Me!"_ she exclaims weakly, voice cracking. "Peter, you almost _died_ because of me!"

There's desperation clawing up her throat, begging for release, tearing her tongue to shreds and her eyes burn.

"'Mora? Just come back, come back," he begs quietly, and his voice is hoarse for a different reason. He shouldn't even be talking right now, she knows this, and she closes her eyes.

"I love you," she whispers, letting fresh tears drip onto the inky fabric of her sweater, the last soft thing she will touch for a long time. "I loved the ring."

"Gamora?"

She pushes open the door.

"Gamora!"

It takes a moment, a split second where she considers turning around, fleeing. She can stop this, right here, right now, this madness that screams for her from the other side of the phone.

_"GAMORA!"_

She breathes in.

One one thousand, two one thousand -

\- "FREEZE! ON YOUR KNEES!"

She sinks to her knees, embracing the bite of the marble underneath the thin layer of her jeans. Peter's voice is still ringing from her hand and she looks down, smiles.

The smiling faces of them stare back, captured in a shining moment and handcuffs bite at her wrists.

"Gamora Whoberi Titan, you are under arrest."

Silent tears drip down her chin, and someone presses  _disconnect_  to the sound of Peter's thrashing, agonizing screams, pleading, begging.

She is grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> references ;  
> [research for medical jargon](https://writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com/2010/07/16/qa-how-are-multiple-gunshot-wounds-to-the-chest-treated/)  
> [the ring](https://i1.wp.com/viscawedding.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Simple-Engagement-Ring-16.jpg?fit=1485%2C1485)  
> the outfit gamora wears in this chapter because it looks hella soft and i'm jealous
> 
> notes ; my rationale for the officer at the hospital not recognizing gamora as the crimelord she is / corvus not either, but them recognizing her at the station is they probably have facial recognition and they at least saw she's supposed to be dead. they don't know she's zehoberei "yet". but they know her father so they can probably put two and two together :^))
> 
> SEE YOU NEXT WEEK FOR THE FINALE PLS DON'T SKIN ME BYE ILY


	5. v

"Turn it off."

Mantis turns, uncrossing her arms and looking back at her brother. "Huh?"

"Please," Peter whispers, hoarse, desperation creeping in at the edges of every syllable, "turn it off."

She blinks before the TV screen goes dark. The hospital room Peter's going to be staying in for a long, long time is quiet, and she can see the outline of her wife out in the hall.

Arguing with someone on the phone.

A lawyer.

"I'm sorry."

Peter watches his little sister sink into the chair by the side of his bed, hand hovering over her abdomen unconsciously. "For what?"

Mantis clasps her hands in her lap. "For not pressing harder. If I had, Gamora would be here, and you would be happy, and-"

"M," he admonishes, shakily reaching out for her hand and she takes it. "This isn't your fault. You didn't know what," he swallows back tears harshly, "what she was going to do. This was her decision. You had other things to worry about."

She doesn't say anything, looking down at their intertwined hands.

"Now, tell me about my niece or nephew," Peter says, and she looks up to see him smiling weakly. He's masking it well, that aching sadness that hovers on his lashline as he resolutely avoids looking at the blank TV screen. "I'm still so hurt you never told me you were _married_ , much less pregnant!"

Mantis laughs, scooting her chair closer, and Peter's eyes are adoring.

"I love you," he says, later, voice scratchy, as his eyelids flutter. Mantis smiles sadly, leaning over him to press her lips to his forehead, knowing he won't remember a single thing when he wakes back up from his sleep and pain medications.

"Love you too, Pete. We all do."

He hums, already fading, and she watches how his fingers stay tightly around hers despite dropping off into sleep.

It hurts more than she's willing to admit to slip her hand out of his grasp. Peter makes a whining noise, and she checks on him one last time before silently closing the glass door behind her.

"How's it going?"

Nebula makes a frustrated noise, still turned away. "Well, we need a new lawyer. Also, Gamora is an idiot."

"So I've heard," Mantis notes, moving forward to wrap her arms around her wife's shoulders. "Is there any good news here, though?"

Sighing, Nebula shakes her head, turning in the embrace.

"She's gone, Mere," she whispers, and the utter heartbreak in her voice makes her chest tear open at the seams.

Mantis holds Nebula closer, and stares resolutely at the blank white wall. In the room behind her, her brother is still fighting for his life and right here in this hallway, her wife is fighting for her sister.

Nebula is free from her father, yet her sister is still so far from reach.

Shuddering against her, Nebula buries her face in her shoulder before _breaking_.

Huge, heaving sobs wrack at her shoulders. Mantis holds her tight against her, and the thing in her chest breaks further when she hears the unmistakable sobbing of Peter through the door.

She closes her eyes, leans her head against Nebula's, and lets the tears slip down her face. Nebula's hands frame her abdomen, and Mantis thinks of all the doctor appointments with a grave-faced man telling them embryo after embryo had died.

All this life, yet so much death.

She stands there for she doesn't know how long. Nebula's tears has long soaked through the clothes Drax had returned with, head down. Mantis had taken the bag from him, whispered [ thank you, ] and he had taken up his post outside Peter's room.

 _Gamora's orders,_ he had said, hoarsely, and she allowed it.

Suddenly there's shouting, and Mantis turns so quickly her head spins. The light above Peter's room is blinking so rapidly she sees it when she blinks, and Nebula's hand wraps around her wrist.

Doctors come running. There are machines rolling across the threshold, and someone rips open the curtains.

Mantis' heart stops.

Peter's convulsing on the bed, back bent upwards as he thrashes. There's foam around the corners of his mouth, sliding down the contours of his face and Mantis faintly registers someone screaming.

There's a hand pulling her backward, farther and farther away from the scene, and she hears machines beeping frantically. "LET ME GO!" she shrieks, twisting her arm, knees threatening to give out, "NEBULA! LET ME GO!"

Peter's screams mount, and the machines scream back. Tears burn at her eyes and her shoulder throbs with her heartbeat but she can't seem to _care_ as she's pulled away.

"I hate you!" Mantis screeches, fingernails digging into Nebula's skin, "I hate you I HATE YOU! PETER!" She's sobbing so hard her shoulders shake, and she claws at her wife, fists pounding into her chest when she twists in the embrace. "PETER! NEBULA, LET ME GO I HATE YOU! _I HATE YOU!"_

Suddenly it all stops.

"PETER!"

The machine beeps frantically, coming to a crescendo, and Peter's back bows before falling back against the sheets. All at the once the world comes rushing back, and her knees give out.

Cold tile rushes up to meet her and

"I hate you," she gasps, and Nebula's arms tighten around her. "I hate you."

"I'm sorry," Nebula whispers, and Mantis bows her head.

"I hate you."

"I know, I know, I know," her wife says, holding her that much tighter, and Mantis hisses [I hate you] until it drips down her throat.

"Mrs. and Mrs. Titan?"

Mantis' head whips up and she scrambles to her feet. "Yes?" she says, breathless, stretching for a glimpse of her brother, but the curtains are drawn and the door is closed.

"Mrs. Titan-"

"It's Quill-Titan, actually," Nebula says, stepping forward and squaring her shoulders. "Is Peter alright?"

There's silence and Mantis' chest caves in.

"Is he okay?" she demands with bated breath, hands shaking and focus uneven. 

Is she even looking forward?

The doctor nods and the light reflects off the glasses tucked into the pocket of his coat. "We missed some fluid in his lungs and he couldn't breathe. His body tried to save him by forcing itself into a seizure."

"But it's gone now?"

"Yes," the doctor says, "we had to put the thoracostomy tube back in, though, so he won't be talking again for a few days. He shouldn't have been talking in the first place yesterday either."

Mantis avoids his gaze. "I know."

A large hand pats her shoulder and she looks up. "He's very lucky," the doctor says, "and I expect him to make a very long but thorough recovery. Just keep the TV off, alright? I don't know what's going on exactly but I think the stress might be a factor in all of this as well."

Nebula steps forward. "Thank you, doctor. Can we see him?"

His smile turns sad. "I'm sorry, but he needs his rest. Let's give him two hours, and then I'll see how he's feeling."

"I understand," Mantis says quietly, and the doctor bows his head.

"He's lucky to have you two, you know."

Mantis blinks. "Huh?"

Smiling sympathetically, the doctor leans close. "While he may not be watching the news, we have. I'm sorry the video leaked."

"Video-?"

Nebula meets Mantis' eyes, horrified. Cold fear slithers up her spine, and the surprise in the doctor's eyes makes it worse. "You didn't see?"

Mantis nods mutely. The doctor beats a hasty retreat, and she collapses into a hard plastic chair in the hall, dropping her face into her hands. Nebula sits too, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"They know, then," Mantis whispers.

"Who knows?"

Mantis looks up, eyes wide with horror. "Proxima. Corvus. They know we weren't just civilians and whoever did _this_ ," she hisses, waving her hands, voice rising to echo down the hall, "now knows Gamora is out of the picture and Peter's defenses are down!"

"Meredith."

Under the fluorescent lights, in a too-big sweater and plain black flats, hair half-pulled away from her face, free from makeup, Mantis looks sickly and tiny. Her shoulders pull in on themselves and Nebula pretends not to notice the rapid swell of her chest and the way her hands shake in her lap.

Nebula rests her hands on her balled fists. "Meredith. Look at me."

Her wife looks up at her through tears. "I'll make a few calls," she says, brushing a piece of hair off her forehead and leaning close to press her lips to the cold skin. "I'll make sure Peter stays safe, okay? Trust me."

"I trust you," Mantis whispers, tears falling off her chin.

She doesn't hesitate when Nebula pulls her close. "I'm sorry," the younger Quill says into her collarbones, and Nebula rubs circles into her back.

"For what?"

"I don't hate you."

Nebula sighs. "Mer, it's okay. You're not yourself right now, I know you don't hate me. You were scared, and you lashed out. There's nothing to apologize for."

"But there is!" Mantis exclaims, pulling back. "I hurt you!"

She looks pointedly at the scratch marks on Nebula's forearms, but Nebula ignores them. "I don't mean physically," she says, voice dropping suddenly, and Nebula exhales.

"You're right. It's not alright. But I understand. I forgive you."

They sit in silence for a moment, before Mantis looks down at their connected hands. "Are you hungry?"

Nebula blinks. "Huh?"

Mantis opens her mouth, but her stomach rumbles loudly before she can say anything. She bursts into giggles that Nebula joins in on, and a minute later Mantis wipes away tears.

"C'mon," Nebula says, pulling her up and silently rejoicing in the fact Mantis is starting to look like herself again, "I think I saw a couple vending machines around here somewhere."

"Last one there's buying!" Mantis exclaims, and darts off.

Her wife's indignant cry carries down the hall after her.

Nebula lets her win.

.

"Tell me how you did it."

Gamora's back and shoulders ache from hours in this metal chair. She squints up at the officer. "Did what?"

"Faked your death."

"I didn't," she snorts, leaning back and ignoring the tingling of her tailbone at the movement, "my father did."

"Why?"

"He said we were getting too attached, and it was time to put us to use."

"Can you go into detail about what he did to you and the other little girl?"

"She's my sister," Gamora hisses, handcuffs biting her wrists as she leans forward and snarls. "We went through hell and back together and she's the closest thing I have to family."

The officer nods, scribbling something down. "I'm sorry I offended you, but she's technically not your sister. Mr. Titan never filled out adoption forms for either of you. You were both taken from your families and I don't know how, but no one ever said a thing."

She scoffs. "It's because he killed our parents when he took us. We were both so young neither of us remembered, so we didn't really care, and neither did anyone else."

"How old were you when you were taken?"

"I was six when he came after my father for not paying him back for something," she says, clasping her hands, "and he took Nebula not because he wanted her, but because he didn't want a witness to the murder of her parents after he caught them behind their apartment building."

The officer sighs, and the pen scratches harshly against the paper. "We're not going to get anywhere if you don't cooperate. You're being charged with manslaughter, and in a few minutes I presume your lawyer will be here. But if you want anything resembling a case in your favor, I need instances that your sister can back up later."

"Look at my face."

Leaning forward, the officer makes a thoughtful noise. "We'll photograph them up close as evidence. Did your father inflict them?"

"You could say that, yeah," she chuckles darkly, "He's also the reason Nebula can't breathe right, and never will, and one day will die because her lungs give out and we don't know if that will be today or years from now. One of her legs had to amputated because he chained her to the wall after she talked back, and tightened it every time she made a sound. He beat us, trained to kill by pitting us against each other, and every time one of us lost, he would take another piece."

"Why didn't you ever report what he did?"

There's tears burning in her eyes and she waves her hands as best she could, desperation and bitterness turning her words cold. "We did! Multiple times officers came to the hospital, and left with smiles because he paid them off or convinced them we were clumsy, careless troublemakers."

She slams her hands down on the table, startling the officer across from her. "We pleaded!" she screams, "we begged for help! But your officers ignored us, sent us back when we ran, never did _shit!_ So we took matters into our own hands, and no one asked questions!"

"No one mourned him," she whispers, slumping back suddenly, "yet here we are."

"Your sister can confirm this?"

Gamora chuckles hollowly. "Our bodies are evidence. We did what we had to, I don't expect you to understand."

The officer stands and walks for the door. He sets a hand on the knob but turns at the last second and she raises her head. "For the record," he says, unblinking, "I would've listened."

"I guess we'll never know," she says quietly, and he nods.

"I guess not."

The door clicks closed behind him, and Gamora stares at the mirrored glass pane. She knows that behind it, the officer is debating with his partner, a pretty girl with short red hair, and her fingers shake.

She presses them into her thighs, digs them into the warm skin, and counts backward from fifty. At thirty-nine, the officer and his partner pass by the window, and at twenty-four, a tall woman in a suit opens the door.

"Miss Titan? I'm your attorney."

Twenty.

"Did the arresting officer read you your Miranda Rights?"

Seventeen.

The chair across from her scrapes harshly against the concrete floor. The woman's perfume is overwhelming, cloying, invading her nose. "Let's get started. How do you plead?"

She stares down at the table, sees Nebula staring back at her. Gamora sees Mantis smiling, head tilted back, holding her stomach and leaning her head on her wife's shoulder. She sees Peter, smiling lazily down at her, fingertips dancing over her shoulder.

Five.

"Guilty," she whispers, gaze pinned to the table and the woman makes a confused noise.

"Guilty?"

She closes her eyes, once, willing away the adoring look in Peter's eyes right before the shot, before he collapsed. This is the way to keep him safe, this is the way to make everything right.

She never should have dragged him into this.

"Yes," she says looking up, steeling herself for what's to come. "Guilty."

One.

The woman blinks before scrambling for her notepad. "Are you taking a deal?"

"Yes," Gamora says, "I will give the police the names of every gang member and their locations I've done deals with, including Corvus."

"And in return? What are you trading this information for? Less jail time?"

She breathes in shakily. "One year in jail and two years of probation."

The pen stops. "Are you sure, Miss. Titan? For all that information, I'm sure you can weasel in less time-"

Gamora's already shaking her head.

"No," she says simply, spreading her hands, "I've done many things in my life, and this is my recompense for it. No compromises. I think this is fair."

Silence.

"Alright. I'll be right back."

The door clicks closed behind the lady in the suit, and Gamora leans back. Closing her eyes against the hanging light right above the table, she breathes out slowly, tampering down her nausea.

Is this really the way?

She doesn't straighten up when the door opens again. "They agreed to the deal," the woman says, and Gamora nods.

"Are we done here, then?"

There's the sound of someone sitting down and she opens her eyes to see the officer from before, curls falling over his forehead. For a split second, she wants to reach across the table and brush them aside, but she swallows the lump in her throat.

It isn't Peter.

Peter's in a hospital bed, will be for a long time, because of her. And if he's barely holding on, according to what the doctor said before she pulled this stunt and got handcuffed to a table, what would it be like if Mantis was in the same position?

She can't do that to Nebula.

Nebula has lost so much, so much more than she can imagine. While Gamora was bred for this, meant for it, Nebula never was. Her initiation into this lifestyle was unplanned, and she's lost more than Gamora, to the point that one day she's going to die because of it.

She dragged Peter into this.

She can make it right.

Gamora can protect her own family left, and her family after that. By doing this, by turning herself in, she is protecting Peter, Nebula, Mantis, their unborn child, everyone after that.

"This deal is," the officer hesitates slightly, "slanted. Are there any other requests before we book you?"

"Yes."

He clicks his pen, looks at her expectantly, and his eyes shine in the low, but harsh, light of the interrogation room. Gamora breathes in deeply, folding her hands, sitting up.

"Witness protection for my sister and her wife, as well as one officer outside Mr. Quill's hospital room until he goes home. I got them all into this, and turning myself in might not be enough to keep them safe."

The young man keeps her gaze until she drops her own.

"I can't protect them anymore," she whispers suddenly, "I don't know if I ever could."

Her hands shake against the cold top of the table before they're enveloped.

Gamora looks up into the warm brown eyes of the young man. "We can protect them," he says, determined, and she blinks away tears as he leans close, the words meant only for her. "You did the right thing, y'know."

Something in her eyes must beg for an explanation.

"You gave up information to take down the two largest crime syndicates in New York City willingly," he says, eyes almost sparkling, "and you didn't ask for no time. It's a reduction in sentence, yes, but it's a good compromise. It shows you feel guilty about Mr. Quill getting hurt, and about your past actions."

She snorts. "Not about killing Thanos though."

"Yeah, that guy was a dick," the officer chuckles, and she smiles at him.

"I wish you were here," she says, "when we needed someone to listen."

Officer Castle - whose nametag fractions light onto the table - nods, something close to a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Me too. You two deserved better than this."

There's a knock on the door and they both look up. Castle sighs, standing, but stops before reaching the door. "I'm glad you're doing the right thing, though, Miss Titan," he says, before bowing his head in acknowledgment, "and I hope we meet again someday."

"As do I," she smiles, and the smile doesn't drop all the way when new handcuffs are tightened around her wrists and she's shuffled into a black van.

Her transfer into the state prison is quiet, quick, and leaves her breathless. She had always known she wouldn't be popular with the inmates, as part of a syndicate that had doomed other gang members, but when the orange cloth is pressed into her hands and she's sneered at, she understands.

This is where she belongs.

"You better watch your back," someone hisses in passing, and she ignores the thump of something thrown against her back. She knows word will travel fast, and lays down on her cot.

"They say you refused protective custody," Nebula says from the other side of the glass, eyebrows furrowed, and Gamora shrugs.

"I don't need it."

When her sister laughs, it's hollow and unkind. "You keep telling yourself that. It's selfish, though."

"Really," Gamora spits, leaning forward, side of the phone pressing into her cheek, "how."

"I'm the one who will have to deal with Peter if you die."

All the breath leaves her at once. She's two months into her sentence, and she's reached a grudging respect with some of the women. Nebula has only visited once before today, and Gamora had come to not expect her sister.

She presses her hand against the plexiglass.

"I'm sorry."

Nebula looks down, and Gamora knows she's twisting her hands. A bad habit she picked up a long time ago. In the sickly lighting overhead, Nebula's short hair sticks up in different directions and her shoulders look hunched, swallowing up her collarbones.

"You should've thought of that first," Nebula spits, standing abruptly, "before you went and pulled this shit."

"Please," she begs, "sit down. I didn't mean to make you angry."

There's silence for a minute before Nebula sighs so heavily her entire body sags.

"Fine."

She slides back onto the stool and Gamora releases a pent-up breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "How are you? How is Meredith?"

Nebula doesn't comment on how she doesn't bring up Peter again the entire time she stays. She doesn't comment on how her sister's hands shake when she brings up her lover's name, and her blood boils beneath her skin.

Gamora keeps talking.

She doesn't press her hand against the plexiglass back.

"She seems to be over morning sickness," Nebula says, "and now we've moved to cravings. I love her, but she shook me awake at 2am this morning and begged me to run down to the store to get pecan pie and peeps. By the time I got back though, she was craving sushi and bacon, though."

Gamora chuckles. "Any name ideas?"

"Not yet. We don't know the gender yet, but both Mer and I have ideas and there's a list on our fridge that we argue about every night."

Behind Gamora, a large guard clears his throat and Gamora's smile drops instantly. "Oh."

"Aren't you going to ask about Peter?"

Gamora swallows thickly. "I," she starts, before cursing and clearing her throat, "I don't know how to ask."

"You could've just asked," Nebula says coldly and Gamora looks down at the desk in front of her.

"Could I have, though? Would you have told me?"

Nebula appraises her sister, sits back.

"Maybe."

It's quiet for a minute, and the guard looks mildly ticked, but then Gamora whispers, _"how is he?"_ and Nebula falls apart.

"He still can't breathe on his own," she hisses, ignoring the way Gamora flinches back. "His oxygen tank follows him around like a lost puppy, and he started physical therapy last week. They had to hold him up at the bars, and when he fell Meredith cried into my shoulder."

"Stop," Gamora whispers, tears dripping onto the desk but Nebula barrels on. All she can see is red, and her hands ache around the phone pressed harshly to her ear."

"He cries for you in his sleep. He doesn't know it, I think, but the other night he had a small seizure and spent three hours whispering your name in your sleep until I begged the nurses to give him something stronger. You should see him," she spits, "the way he's given up!"

 _"STOP!"_ Gamora screams, pushing away and the chair screeches painfully against the floor. She's breathing harshly, chest heaving, and Nebula smiles coldly.

"How does it feel?"

Gamora walks away without a word, and the door clicks close behind her. Nebula turns and does the same, and Mantis is waiting in the parking lot.

"I take it didn't go well."

Nebula falls into the passenger seat.

"What made you think that?" she bites out, and grounds her palms into her eyes, seeing stars. The second the words slip she regrets them, knowing the situation isn't her wife's fault.

Mantis lays a hand on her arm, and her exhale is shaky.

"Sorry about snapping. She just," she makes a sound of frustration, "doesn't know."

"I know," her wife says quietly, rubbing her arm. "I'm sorry it has to be like this. It's not fair."

"No, it's not," Nebula says. "It never will be."

They sit there in silence for a few moments. Underneath her, the car comes alive, and Mantis' hand is warm in hers the entire drive home. She doesn't comment on the paleness of her wife's knuckles against the steering wheel, or the dark circles rimming her bare face because she _understands_.

When they get home, there'll be three voicemails from the hospital. That Peter walked on his own, was able to go to the bathroom, was slowly being weaned off of pain meds and would be able to come home soon. The room that they had decorated for the baby now has a twin bed pushed against the farthest wall, and Nebula catches Mantis looking sorrowfully at the door more than once.

Meredith Quill-Titan's belly grows, and Peter takes another step.

Nebula sits by the window, at the phone, and Gamora sleeps.

She remembers buying this house. Mantis had seen the sign first, less than three blocks from her and Peter's office, and Nebula couldn't say no. The house is small, but roomy, sunlight flooding in all the windows.

That was Nebula's only condition for a house. Windows, everywhere.

She still feels it sometimes, that inky cold that seeps into her bones. Sometimes when it's dark, she'll see flashes of Gamora screaming and blood under her fingernails, and they haven't gone away.

Nebula thought they would go away when they pinned Thanos' hands to the desk in his office with knives and she cleanly removed his head from his shoulder with a single swipe.

They don't.

They haven't.

The house lays on the outskirts of Manhatten. Large bay windows line almost the entire wall of the living room, and she tucks herself into the corner of the sofa right in the sunshine.

Maybe she's crazy, but that residual ache in her bones seems to melt away under the sunlight. There's something about the balmy warmth that strips her to the core and seeps into every corner of her mind, erasing the shadows that Mantis say creep behind her eyes.

Arms wrap around her shoulders and she hums, leaning back into the rounded abdomen of her wife.

"Hey."

Despite her eyes still being closed, Nebula leans her head back further and kisses Mantis back. "Hi baby."

Mantis' smile is palpable against her lips. "Not yet."

"Oof!"

From her lap, Mantis smiles. Despite her rounded belly, swollen ankles and overall general tiredness she keeps on her feet and Nebula raises an impressed eyebrow.

"Did you just jump over the back of the couch to cuddle?"

"Shut up and kiss me," Mantis whispers, already leaning in, and Nebula smiles, watching the way the sunlight slants over her cheekbones.

"Yes ma'am," Nebula breathes.

Mantis tastes like lavender, floral perfume, and mint. On anyone else, it would make her wrinkle her nose, but Nebula peppers kisses down her exposed neck and lavishes in the sweet flavor. Mantis tangles her fingers in her cropped hair, moaning softly, and drapes her legs off the side of the couch.

They don't leave the sunlight for the rest of the afternoon.

Sometime after the sunlight has moved across the floor, Nebula blinks awake. In her back pocket, her phone buzzes dimly and she fumbles for it, trying not to jostle the pregnant woman dozing in her lap.

Mantis doesn't stir and she blinks at the contact.

"Peter?"

"Turn on the TV," he wheezes, sounding like he's run a marathon while chainsmoking pipe like some kind of noir film villain, "channel four."

Nebula scrambles for the remote, adrenaline coursing through her veins and turning her fingers numb. "Is everything okay? Do you need me to come over? What am I looking for?"

"You'll know it," he coughs harshly off-speaker, and she grinds her teeth at the sound, "when you see it."

Uncertain fingers search for the remote, and her arm is shaking when she raises it. The TV blinks on, illuminating Mantis' cheeks with bluish light that makes her look sickly and ethereal at the same time and on the other end of the line, Peter's breath comes harshly.

The TV changes channels too quickly and not quick enough and at the same time the current news story comes up, three things happen.

One. The remote - and her phone, maybe, Peter's voice is suddenly so far away, yelling - falls and the sound is like a gunshot.

Two. The landline screams.

Three. Mantis' face swims before her, blocking out the bold title stamped across her faint eyelids. She can hear her wife calling, and when her cheeks drip wetly she doesn't know if it's her or Mantis. The world is spinning yet perfectly still and that darkness creeps back into her bones, taunting, teasing.

_**FORMER MOB BOSS IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER ATTACK IN CELL.** _

She doesn't know if the footage is shaky, or her vision. Fingernails dig into arms and she scrambles for footing, pushing closer as the screen shows a figure, prone, being wheeled away on a stained stretcher.

Around the figure's neck, shining against the blood, is a silver necklace. It's just a circle, plain and simple, but the sudden weight of her own collarbone reminds her of the metal around her [own] neck.

Trembling fingers clutch at her chest and the cold metal pressing up against her heart doesn't lie.

_Gamora?_

Mantis screams.

The world goes dark the same time the TV does, and Nebula reaches, far and wide. She doesn't find whatever she reaches for, and the floor rushes up to meet her.

Darkness is an old friend, a newly made enemy, and Nebula wonders if this is the fear Gamora feels.

.

There's _something_ on her chest.

It's not heavy, but it's not light. It's a sensation of _there_ and when she goes to swat it away, her arm is leaden. She licks her lips, slowly, as if stuck in a nightmare where she can't run from something chasing her, and she can't blink.

She sees flashes.

Faces. Lights. Darkness. Light. Fear?

Faces.

Everywhere, faces.

Brightness overwhelms her vision and she can't even squint. Her eyes burn at the sensation and she wants to squirm away, but finds she can't move.

Cold, hard panic rises in her bones. She knows this feeling all too well, the knowledge of not being able to escape pain, and she sobs.

_They killed Thanos. He is gone. He cannot hurt her any longer._

So why this feeling? She recognizes the bite of metal around her wrists and ankles, and whatever's going on around her rocks painfully. Her vision swims wetly, and she can't reach up to wipe away the wetness on her cheeks.

It takes way too long to realize she's crying, and she finds it doesn't matter. Even without the restraints holding her down, her arms are too heavy. The realization, the shame, causes the wetness to increase and she can't even turn away from the light.

What will Thanos do this time?

Is this what she deserves? Is she dead?

A sudden shaking and a scream sticks in her throat. Her mouth is dry, hollow, and she can't breathe, can't move, can't defend herself.

Defending, it seems, is unnecessary.

She's already dead.

Or, if she isn't, she knows she will be soon. While she can't see now, she vividly remembers the faces in the dark, the cloth on her mouth, the hands tearing at her skin, stinging, ripping, an ache so familiar it had disarmed her for a moment.

It was all they had needed.

She wonders if the knife is still in her side, if the scissors are still stuck in the side of her neck.

Does it matter?

.

Peter doesn't dream.

Whatever the nurse had put in his IV he's doing his damn hardest to fight. Every blink is a battle, and he grunts as he forces himself upwards. The TV drones on commercial, and he doesn't dare to breathe too deeply to miss anything.

The lights outside his room are flashing. There's a gap just wide enough in his curtains that he can see the nurses and doctors rushing by, fluttering white coats and rumpled blue scrubs.

He thinks he spots blood on more than one set of clothes.

The tiles are cold, even through his socks. When he takes a step, clinging to the side of the bed, he almost trips, but forces himself up on trembling arms.

While they're shaky, he's learning to walk again, and his physical therapist assures him one day he'll be able to run again. Right now, he needs every ounce of determination and strength he has in his weak limbs to reach that window.

The TV's subtitles flash that the victim of the crime will be taken to the nearest hospital.

Peter doesn't know if he's hoping for this hospital to be the closest.

_Is he?_

Knees threatening to give out underneath him, he inhales. One foot slides forward, and then he's pushing away from the bed, thin cloth gown sticking to his thighs.

The closer he gets to the window, the louder the sirens get. He's been in the hospital for almost three months and he grasps for the ledge as his knees buckle again.

Somehow, he makes it.

All at once, the sirens cut out. It's just the lights then, and his vision tilts dangerously when he parts the curtains and presses his nose to the cool glass.

The flashing lights imprint in his eyelids when he blinks, but not as violently as the sight before him. There's shouting, and his headache throbs just in time for a crowd of people to turn the corner, chaos.

They go rushing by, and he peels back his eyelids to see dark, sickly-looking fingers hanging over the side of the stretcher. They're dripping blood slowly onto the linoleum tiles, and he dimly thinks the janitor isn't going to like that.

Then he sees the flash of metal around the one finger, and his entire world _freezes._

Later, one of the nurses will tell how he threw himself against the glass, screaming, and how it took two doctors and the security guard outside his room to pry him off it.

Shakily, she'll tell him of the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue as he screeched and yelled and fought against being put back in bed. How they had to up his sleep medication by three to knock him out, and the almost peaceful look in his haunted eyes when it hit his bloodstream.

When he wakes up, two days later, the ring is on his nightstand, and the guard in the corner of his room smiles sympathetically.

Ignoring the pulling in his chest, he reaches for it. The metal is cold, and when he turns it over and over in his hands, rust-colored pieces fleck off and stick to his fingers.

Peter turns over, away from the prying eyes of his guard, of the doctors and the nurses, and curls around his enclosed fist. He brings the ring to his lips, closes his eyes, and does the one thing he hasn't done since his mother died, that fateful summer night, in a bed not unlike his own, in a hospital not unlike this one.

He prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, walking into this dumpster fire of a fic two weeks late, holding a lukewarm cup of tea: heyo i come bearing awful, awful gifts 
> 
> NO BUT REALLY thank y'all for your paitence. this chapter refused to be written, and i wrestled with it for two weeks now until i finally found a spot i was comfortable with. irl also hasn't been the kindest, but i won't bore you with the details of becoming an adult. 
> 
> epilogue next week, and then i take a break for a month before coming back with a new fic! as much as i've loved trying my hand at a multi-chapter thing, we all see how (horribly) that's worked out, both for me and you as readers. keep a look out for a new chapter of van gogh's sunflowers, a new separately published drabble, and possibly a new ficlet story in the next two weeks though!
> 
> thanks for sticking by and not ripping off my head!
> 
> (or at least - not yet.)

**Author's Note:**

> see y'all next tuesday!
> 
> get ready for the spicy content, and not just starmora spicy content either ;^)


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